


A Breath of Fresh Air

by TheTetrarch



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Cameos, Fifth Doctor - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Fourth Doctor - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Ninth Doctor - Freeform, Romance if you squint, TwelveWhump!, War Doctor - Freeform, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2373086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTetrarch/pseuds/TheTetrarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between S8:2 & S8:3. A still-recovering Twelve & Clara take a break, a little trip to try and figure each other out. Not much of a plot, but some TwelveWhump! and lots of angst and awkwardness. Written to overcome a 10-month writer's block.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

** CHAPTER ONE **

Clara Oswin Oswald, teacher, companion and the Impossible Girl, peered around the tall, spare frame of the Doctor as he stood outside the TARDIS’ door, his arms gracefully akimbo as he twirled, the red lining of his coat flashing briefly in the cold, brilliant light of the world laid out before them, born of twin suns high in a windswept blue sky.

“You have _got_ to be joking!” she hissed, her breath misting in the freezing air.

“Favonius … _Prime!!_ ” The Doctor announced, his hands giving an extra flourish on the second word as though he had magically produced an exceptionally cute rabbit from his sleeve.

Clara blinked, even as she shivered in the near-zero temperature of this other-worldly tundra landscape.

They were standing outside the newly-materialised TARDIS, parked neatly on top of an enormous rocky escarpment which fell away as a steep cliff of obsidian. Hundreds of feet below them, stretching into the distance, was a stark land of mosses and stunted trees, and far away, she could just make out the gleam of chill light on water. Behind the TARDIS rose a great mountain range of sharp, snow-capped pinnacles, huge and unforgiving, glaciers flowing in a river of greenish-blue ice between each fang of rock.

Nothing moved. The landscape was empty of life, apart from one overly enthusiastic (and immensely irritating) Time Lord, and a small, very annoyed female human.

Clara stared at the Doctor. She looked more than a bit miffed. The Doctor stared back, one eyebrow askance, eyes beginning to narrow in irritation. He opened his mouth as though he was about to say something particularly scathing, but thought better of it and waved a hand at the bleak landscape.

“I took you to where you wanted to go … so why the scowly face?”

Clara wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, and stamped her feet, which were rapidly chilling despite her decision to wear warm boots.

“I _said_ … I fancied a bit of fresh air. What I _wanted_ was a nice, gentle walk along Blackpool beach! What happened to my walk along Blackpool beach, Doctor? Hmm? I categorically did _not_ say I wanted to go on some sort of insane polar expedition!”

“Blackpool!” snorted the Doctor, wiggling his shoulders in disgust. “Full of sticks of pink rock and old people with badly-fitting false teeth munching chips … now this - ” He waggled long fingers at the vista before them “ – _this_ … is what I call a place fit for a breath of fresh air!” He squared his shoulders, head and eyebrows defiant. His hands finished their gesticulating and ended up back in his pockets, his ramrod-straight posture daring Clara to deny the truth of his words.

Clara’s own eyebrows raised in wordless disbelief.

The Doctor gave a small but knowing smile, sure he had won the argument.

If looks could kill, Clara’s glare would have reduced the Doctor to a mouldering corpse in a nano-second, but the object of her scowl just curled his smile into a definite smirk.

“Favonius Prime, the only ice-world of the Charon system. Thirty-two hour days – ideal for getting in some really good sightseeing – whopping big moon for that all-important moon-rise thingy while glugging a mug of hot chocolate, and then we can eat our sandwiches while doing some interesting phosphorescent-marine-beastie-spotting!” The Doctor’s smug smile softened, becoming warm and expectant. “C’mon, Clara … where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It headed off to Blackpool expecting a gentle walk along the beach, apparently,” Clara muttered, teeth on the point of chattering with the cold. She squinted at the Doctor and then took a deep breath. Oh, what the hell. She sighed dramatically. “All right. A walk it is. A walk to _where_ , exactly?”

The Doctor gave her a fleeting grin of delight and turned back to gaze at the distant watery gleam. He gestured with his chin.

“There. The Inner Sea of Pariel. When the moon rises it’s …” his blue-grey eyes were faintly wistful, “ … it’s … special. Wait until you see. It’s not a long walk and we’ll be back before you know it. The moonlight here is nearly as bright as day, so we’ll be able to walk back easily.” Clara wondered why he didn’t seem to feel the cold. Someone as lean as the Doctor should feel the cold. And then, to her immense satisfaction, she saw the tiniest of shivers and a miniscule hunch of black-clad shoulders.

_The silly beggar’s freezing. Just won’t show it. Talk about stubborn._

“Coat. Boots. Gloves _. Hat_.” She rubbed her arms vigorously and headed back into the TARDIS, but hesitated at the door and turned back, her face shadowed with concern. “Doctor … is there anything out there that is going to … well … eat us? I don’t want there to be any _running_ this time. Any chance of avoiding the _running_ thing?”

The Doctor shook his head, hands still tucked in his pockets, his lean frame stark against the endless horizon of blue sky and distant landscapes.

“Running? Nope. The biggest land carnivore here would be hard-pressed to beat up a rabbit. There are a few scavengers and a bunch of hairy herbivores, but nothing that should give us any trouble. There are a couple of rather big marine predators,“ he gave a sudden, predatory grin of his own, “but we’re not going paddling, now are we?”

“We’d better not, that’s all I can say,” Clara muttered quietly. “I’m not in the mood for running. Or swimming, for that matter.”

“Yes _Ma’am_ ,” said the Doctor, mobile mouth quirking.

Clara studied her companion for a moment, and then seemed to make a decision.

“Okay then. C’mon, you. Warm clothes. Hot chocolate. Sandwiches. And _cake_.”

The Doctor smiled that rare, genuinely warm smile that softened the angular edges of his face, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling with humour.

“A picnic. A picnic with _cake_ ,” he said, laughter hiding behind every syllable. But as he watched Clara disappear into the TARDIS the smile faded and his cool gaze swept once more over the land before him. Turning his face to the distant twin yellow suns above, he closed his eyes and for a brief moment his breath hitched as though in pain. And then his nostrils flared, cold air filling his lungs and soothing his hearts. He opened his eyes and nodded to himself. “Yeah,” he murmured. “This is just what we need. A calming breath of fresh air. And no _running_. Maybe that’ll help.”

And decision made, he followed Clara into the TARDIS.

To be continued ... 


	2. Chapter Two

** CHAPTER TWO **

Thirty minutes later, Clara followed the Doctor out of the TARDIS, both of them ensconced in warm, fur-lined coats and gloves, heavy boots and in Clara’s case, a cosy knitted _chullo_ of alpaca fleece.

“Oi!” Clara said, raising an eyebrow, the teacher in her surfacing indignantly. “Where’s your hat? If you get frostbitten earholes won’t it ruin your Time-Lordy street cred?”

The Doctor shouldered the backpack the TARDIS had kindly supplied and which he was sure contained a flask of hot chocolate, sandwiches and, obviously, cake. He ran an affectionate hand down the TARDIS’ side as though stroking a spirited horse’s flank.

“Thanks, old girl,” he murmured, and then turned to Clara. “I don’t do hats.”

Clara couldn’t contain her surprise.

“Since when?”

The Doctor’s mouth twitched.

“Since twenty-seven days ago.”

Ah.

Regeneration Day.

Clara saw the tiredness in his eyes and decided not to push it. She knew he was still recovering from the process. It had been too quick … too hard on his battered body. He still forgot words, still had moments of confusion and doubt. And he _slept_. Sleep was something his previous selves had not really needed, but this time … this time the regeneration had taken something profound from him.

Several times Clara had found him in an exhausted state, usually after a period of manic activity, unsteadily making his way to his armchair on the upper walkway of the TARDIS, wearily collapsing into it with a boneless abandonment she would never previously have believed of the Time Lord. He had fallen asleep within seconds, and she had silently draped a blanket over him and left him to his dreams.

But then followed the nightmares … and the flinch of bony shoulders and the haunted eyes as she tried to sooth him in the aftermath. Her feeling of awkward helplessness consumed her – and they never spoke about it. _Ever_.

She gave herself a mental shake, and shrugged at the Doctor.

“Don’t blame me if you start losing body parts, then.” And with that, the painful moment of brittle silence passed, and she gave him the best smile she could muster. “So … which way is it to the beach?”

The Doctor gestured towards the edge of the escarpment, warmth returning to his gaze. “Be prepared to be blown away.”

Clara followed him for five minutes along the edge of the escarpment, watching him stop now and again to peer over the edge, listening to a soft, muttering litany of ‘ _No_ ’s’ and ‘ _Blast it, where is it??’_. She was about to asking him just what the hell he was looking for when he straightened in triumph.

“YES! I knew it was here somewhere! Come on Clara, get a move on!”

And then he walked straight over the edge of the escarpment.

“DOCTOR!!”

Clara stumbled towards the edge, swallowing her gut-wrenching fear of the sheer drop and frantically peering over the edge. She could _not believe_ the idiot had just walked over a cliff – or not, as it turned out.

“What _are_ you yelling about?”

The Doctor stood nonchalantly on a chiselled-out ledge a few feet below her, shaking his head, smirking in a way that instantly made Clara want to slap the expression right off his smug, arrogant face.

She looked at him, bewildered, and then turned away in an almost overwhelming surge of frustration.

She tried desperately to get herself under control by taking in the carved steps that stretched down the cliff in a meandering, ancient line. Each step glistened in the light, shining blackly, slick and unnerving. There was no barrier between the narrow steps and an unimpeded fall with a sudden and deadly stop at the bottom. There was a small, steep incline from the top of the cliff to where the Doctor stood, hands on hips, an easy scramble for Clara as she slid down beside him.

She gave him a two-fingered punch in the chest. Hard.

“OW!” The Doctor rubbed the place over his right heart. “What was that for – “

Brown eyes glared hotly up at him.

“Don’t you EVER do that again, you sod! You frightened the wits out of me!”

The Doctor suddenly realised that Clara was shaking. Perhaps stepping off a cliff when your companion had thought she had lost her best friend only twenty-seven days earlier hadn’t exactly been tactful.

“Not even a little bit funny, eh,” he said, brows drawn down in a grudging apology.

Clara looked up at him as the shaking subsided along with her anger. She could no more remain angry with this new version of the Doctor than she could with his predecessor, and even though she continued to simmer slightly, she raised her hand and gently touched the tender place where she had punched him. She couldn’t help but notice the Doctor’s almost imperceptible shrinking away from her fingers as they skimmed his chest, and she once again felt the ache of separation, the pain of new boundaries that should never have been.

Her fingers went from his chest to straighten the collar of the heavy coat, urging it closer to his throat, needing it to warm him when she couldn’t. She didn’t know him anymore, and it was a chill in her heart that she couldn’t seem to chase away, no matter how hard she tried. He was her best friend … and oh, how she missed him.

“Not funny. At _all_ ,” she said. “ _Idiot_!” she added softly.

The Doctor, now confident that he had been completely forgiven, gestured to the long line of terrifying steps.

“This way, Teach. A hop, skip and a jump down these steps, a wee walk across the tundra and then … _mucho_ amazing!”

Clara perused the steps.

“Couldn’t you have dropped us off at the bottom??”

“Nope. All part of the thrill!” The Doctor waggled his eyebrows with ill-concealed glee.

Clara was not impressed.

“Brat!” she grumbled.

The corner of his mouth tipped up in that oh-so-annoying half-smirk, then he headed off down the steps, long legs sometimes taking them two at a time. Clara followed, the glass-like surface clinking under her boots. She tried desperately to avoid looking at the sheer drop to her left. After a couple of minutes she decided she needed to take her mind off it, and looking at the Doctor’s shoulders as he led the way down the steps, asked,

“Who made these? I mean, you said there wasn’t any civilisation here … just a few ‘hairy beasties’.”

The Doctor gave her a quick backward glance.

“These steps are ancient. Thousands of years old.” He paused as he took a deep stride over two broken steps and turned to give Clara a hand in negotiating the same problem. “The Vendraloii are long gone.” He took a deep breath. “They … died out.”

Clara didn’t miss the hesitation in his voice but decided not to pursue the matter. Instead she concentrated on her balance as she put her hand on the gleaming cliff to her right as she caught her boot on the edge of a shattered step.

Twenty minutes later they stood at the bottom of the steps, the distant water now invisible among the landscape of small trees and a ground solid with permafrost. Underfoot stretched a layer of algae-covered rocks bedded in cushions of lichen-like plants. The pale blue sky had begun to darken as the twin suns dipped towards the horizon.

“This way!” The Doctor strode off in the general direction of the glittering inland sea, legs tackling the uneven ground with easy grace, Clara straggling behind trying to keep up.

“Not so fast!” she yelled, tripping over a protruding rock in her haste.

The Doctor slowed, but didn’t stop.

“You’re out of condition, Clara … happens a lot when you’re not so young anymore!” he yelled back, refusing to turn around. “Unless you’re me, of course.”

Clara caught up with him and fell in beside his lean frame.

“Yeah … well … I’m not designed along the lines of a giraffe on caffeine. Just sayin’ …” she snarked.

“Interesting animal, the giraffe,” he murmured absently in reply, “same number of vertebrae in its neck as other animals. Baby giraffes … six-foot drop when they’re born … dropped right on their heads.”

“Yep – sounds just like you,” Clara retorted. “All that being-dropped-on-your-head-as-a-baby thing. Explains a lot.”

She was so busy watching her step and muttering to herself that she didn’t see the Doctor stop dead in his tracks. She piled into his back and nearly fell over, but she felt a hand grasp her above the elbow and balance her.

“Look!” The Doctor pointed into the distance with his free hand at an indistinct blob on the near horizon. “A Lesser Vordal.”

Clara squinted. The blob resolved itself slowly into a vaguely rhinoceros-like beast with a bony plate over the nape of its neck and a coat of thick blue-grey hair. It looked enormous.

“If that’s the _Lesser_ Vordal, I can’t imagine how big the _Greater_ Vordal is …”

“Extinct,” the Doctor said promptly. “Long ago.” He paused. “The _Colossal_ Vordal takes up a lot of room, though.”

Clara took a shaky breath.

“There aren’t any around here … are there?” She said guardedly.

The Doctor pursed his lips and shook his head.

“No, no, no … they live further south. Only the Lesser Vordal lives here. See the tusks?”

Clara could just see the wicked curve of tusks curling around the beast’s pig-like muzzle like tushes, wickedly hooked and dirty yellow in hue. Luckily the thing appeared to be grazing quietly on the lichen-like plants, munching with cow-like placidity in the lowering light.

“It’s a female. Only the female has tusks. The male is a parasitic organism. Attaches itself to the female behind the neck plate.” The Doctor waved absently in the general direction of his neck. “He fuses to her, using her blood supply and supplying the … ahh … _you-know-what_ continuously in return.” The Doctor pondered silently for a moment.

Clara nodded.

“Sounds like some men I’ve known – present company excluded,” she added hastily.

The Doctor, thankfully, appeared oblivious to the slip.

“Come on Clara, we’re wasting time. We don’t have long to go until the show, so let’s get a move on. Stir those wee legs. We’ll be there before you know it.”

And off he went, heading north to the edge of the vast Inland Sea of Pariel and the mysterious moon-rise of Favonius Prime.

Clara gave the distant Lesser Vordal a final glance, jammed her hat further down over her ears, and set off after her companion.

 _Wee legs, indeed_.

And within seconds, she walked beside the Doctor as they headed into the setting suns and the ice-blue chill of lengthening shadows.

 

To be continued ...


	3. Chapter Three

** CHAPTER THREE  **

The Doctor, Clara had to admit, certainly knew how to impress.

They had arrived on the shore of the Inner Sea of Pariel just as the suns dipped below the horizon, the lingering light glittering over the icebergs dotted about the vast seascape. Waves crashed against towering rocks, and the sunset was truly breathtaking … a panorama of reds and oranges and purples dispersed through an atmosphere rich in nitrogen, weaving slowly through high, thin clouds and reflected in the infinite depths of the sea.

The Doctor had found a flat, rocky promontory high above the cliffs – _What is it with you and cliffs?_ Clara had to ask – and then fished around in the backpack, bringing out a tartan blanket, a steel flask, a box of sandwiches and what Clara later discovered was Dundee cake.

They settled down on the spread blanket, backs against a convenient rock, and sipped on hot chocolate while waiting for the moon to rise. Clara, looking for a napkin in the backpack, found a small packet of mini-marshmallows.

“Yes!” she crowed, opening the packet and dropping a few of the gooey treats into her hot chocolate. She offered some to the Doctor, but he shook his head.

“They’ll go straight to your hips, those things.”

Clara hitched an amused eyebrow at the tall man sprawled comfortably beside her.

“And this from a man who ate custard with his fish fingers,” she taunted. She gently poked him in the side, which made him squirm a little, ticklish, which delighted her. “You could do with a bit more meat on you,” she added, a little more seriously. “There’s nothing of you. A time-travelling bag of bones, that’s what you are. Eat more!”

The Doctor’s mouth turned down at the corners as he pondered her comments. Then, without saying a word, he gathered a tiny handful of marshmallows out of the packet and dumped them in his hot chocolate. Taking a mouthful of the hot liquid, he savoured the sweetness and swallowed. He hitched an eyebrow at Clara.

“Sickening. Utterly disgusting.” His blue-grey eyes glittered impishly, like a six-year-old high on additives. “More!”

“Manners!” she retorted, but dropped more of the marshmallows in his drink.

They munched their way through most of the sandwiches and were just cutting a generous slice of Dundee cake each when the sky began to glow.

“Ah!” The Doctor settled back against the stone, cake and hot chocolate in hand. He gently nudged Clara with his shoulder. “Watch!”

And the moon rose before them. It was a huge moon, a majestic moon, taking up easily one third of the sky, limpid and silver and ethereal, drowning out the galaxies in a haze of opalescent glory. It reflected in the heaving sea and against the dark reaches of the mountains … it set the cliffs aflame with cold, flickering light and echoed in the depths of the Doctor’s eyes.

Clara gazed in wonder. “It’s … it’s …”

The Doctor finished his slice of cake and brushed crumbs from his chest.

“Not bad, eh?” He shrugged. “Mind you, once you’ve seen one moon-rise, you’ve seen ‘em all, more or less.”

Clara looked at him in disbelief.

“ _What_??” That little crease between her brows deepened, a crease that the Doctor knew meant a sudden strop was heaving into view. “Why do you _do_ that?? Why do you have to spoil - “

The Doctor’s big hand settled on the top of Clara’s head, grasping it gently and turning her face back to the view.

“Don’t look at the moon – it’s okay I suppose, but I’ve seen better. Forget the moon. Look at the _sea_.”

The impending Oswald strop dissolved into genuine confusion.

“The sea? Why – “

The Doctor’s mouth curled into a wolfish smile.

“Because, my dear, _dear_ Clara, this is when the _Frym_ come out to play.”

And as he spoke, the sea erupted into glittering majesty.

Clara gasped.

The sea roiled, as though the world had taken a deep breath, and monstrous backs breeched the surface, water running from them in quicksilver rills. Great beasts they were, as long again as the largest Terran whale, with four jaws that opened like a murderous flower lined with gleaming rows of fearsome teeth. The creatures rolled and snapped, leapt and dove, long flukes stirring glimmering water into molten froth. Filigree trails of bio-luminescence graced their black hides, setting flickering, silver-green light along the glistening cliffs.

And they sang. Oh, how they sang, deep and true and lonely, notes thrumming so low that Clara felt them drum in her heart. And as the song reached to the depths of the sky, she turned and looked at the Doctor. Her breath caught in her throat. His angular face was rapt, the song ran through his veins as wildfire and into his hearts, and his eyes shone with starlight.

She smiled then, suddenly wanting to understand this strange, complicated being who had appeared before her unbidden and unwanted, no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that he was still the man, the Time Lord, she had come to love.

Leaning over slightly, she gently laid her head against his shoulder, waiting for the move away from her touch … but it never came.

And so they stayed, drenched in moonlight and soothed by song, and were content.

* * *

 

The moon hung high in the sky above, and the song of the Frym finally softened, then faded, and then became nothing but silence. Their frolicking slowed and one by one, with a languid flick of elegant flukes, they dove into the deep and were gone.

Two hours had passed since the moon had risen, and the Doctor and Clara stirred, Clara blinking sleepily as she raised her head from the Doctor’s coated shoulder. She realised that he had not moved, not since she had settled against him, and she was touched, understanding with a soft jolt that he had not wanted to disturb her … he had needed her to see and hear and feel the song of the Frym.

Clara sat up and stretched, yawning, as the Doctor winced, rolling his shoulder. He glowered down at her.

“You may be a little thing with an even littler brain but you’re no lightweight, especially in the head department,” he grumbled. “My arm’s gone to sleep.”

Clara grinned up at him.

“You.” She said.

The Doctor’s face lapsed into that guarded, fixed expression that Clara had quickly learned was his ‘I’m not sure, but I think she’s going to shout at me again’ face.

“Me?” he cleared his throat. “What about me? And what’s with the smiling?”

“I’m smiling because I have you figured out all of a sudden. Well,” she added, slightly unsure, “maybe just a little bit.” She thought for a moment, and then touched his chest. “See, in here –“ she patted the place “- in amongst all of the hard edges and grump and rudeness and all of that other bad-tempered stuff you like to do is a small, very delicate but extremely squidgy marshmellow somewhere about … _there_.” Her finger poked the very centre of his chest.

The Doctor opened his mouth, ready for a quick sneer, but Clara lifted her hand from his chest and placed her finger against his lips, silencing him before he could start.

“Shhh … it’s all right. Your secret is safe with me. And anyway, no-one would believe me, ‘cause you’re pretty rubbish at the ‘being nice’ thing.”

She gazed into startled eyes, opened wide underneath those fierce brows, and smiled.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and pressed a feather-light kiss right on the end of his patrician nose.

The resulting horrified, embarrassed bluster was worth every second, she decided.

The Doctor hauled himself to his feet and gathered up the blanket, scowling and trying hard to resist the urge to scrub the end of his nose to rid himself of every iota of lingering affection and, he was sure, a lot of residual saliva.

He was still wary of her twenty minutes later as they tramped carefully over a landscape bright with moonshine, every rock and tree casting black shadows rimmed with silver. The escarpment loomed before them, still some distance away given their easy, relaxed pace, its obsidian flanks glittering with dimmed starglow.

Clara was now sure that the temperature had dropped to well below zero, and their boots rang against stone, oddly loud in the silent world around them. As they walked on, Clara realised that despite her initial objections, this visit to Favonius Prime had been … well … spectacular. And, she had to admit, the Doctor had chosen well. He had gauged her response perfectly, and despite his offhand behaviour had done his best to please her. His previous self would have been all waving arms and boyish enthusiasm, while this new incarnation was … _not_.

While Clara pondered the mysteries of Time Lord regenerative peculiarities, she didn’t notice that the Doctor’s pace had significantly slowed. He was already several yards behind her when she finally missed his presence.

“C’mon, slowcoach!” she said, smiling as she turned back to him.

But he now stood completely still, looking over his left shoulder at the sky, his face all silver and dark, haunting shadows. His lips pursed in thought, soft breath misting in the chill air.

Clara frowned, her curiosity piqued.

“What? What is it?”

The Doctor shifted the backpack on his shoulder, settling it as though its weight anchored him.

“Oncoming storm …” he murmured, almost to himself.

Clara crossed her arms, face pouting in faint amusement.

“Is that why you stopped walking? To have a quick brag? Nobody here but me, Doctor. Nobody else to impress.” She loosened an arm and waved it at the empty landscape. “See?”

The Doctor grimaced, a flash of teeth in the moonlight.

“No, little miss pudding-brain, _look_!” He pointed into the far distance. “Oncoming storm!”

Clara twisted around, following his gaze. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck, the air suddenly redolent with ozone and electricity.

Before her, the sky was distant chaos.

Clouds blacker than the blackest night rolled over the inland sea, blocking stars and shadowing the huge moon. Thunder growled from the midst of the towering mass, a threatening howl of sound punctuated by the blinding crack of jagged lightning, brilliant and deadly as it clove a giant iceberg in two, the noise of its death setting the earth shuddering beneath their feet.

The storm would be upon them before they could reach the escarpment steps.

Clara’s eyes were wide with alarm.

“Doctor, what –“

The Doctor looked about him, calculating distances, ideas and thoughts tumbling through his mind and being discarded equally as quickly.

“There,” he said, indicating a small, thick copse of bushes peppered with a few taller trees.

Clara shook her head.

“No, no … isn’t it true that lightning and trees don’t mix? Aren’t we just putting ourselves in more danger?”

The Doctor spread his arms, irritated.

“Look around you – d’you see anywhere better? A bomb shelter, perhaps, or an underground car park lurking about in the undergrowth!? We don’t have a choice – it’s either there or out in the open.” He suddenly grinned. “Any copse in a storm, eh?”

Clara realised he was right. Of course he was right. He always was, damn him.

“Funny man. _Not_.” She narrowed her eyes at him for added effect.

“Go on, then. Shoo!” The Doctor waved his hands at her, herding her towards the copse. “C’mon, c’mon, Clara, shift yourself! We don’t have all night!”

They reached the copse just as the first hailstones pinged off the branches of a nearby tree. The storm rumbled closer, the entire sky now full of anger and wrenching noise. Grabbing Clara by the shoulders, the Doctor gave her a sharp push forward into the bushes and followed her through grey leaves and wickedly twisting branches, small thorns tearing at them both.

Clara reached a tiny clearing in the centre of the copse, the surrounding bushes affording them some shelter as the noise overhead became almost overwhelming. The hail bombarded them, bouncing off bodies and backpack, the Doctor hissing in annoyance as one particularly large hailstone nicked his cheekbone, leaving a smear of blood.

The wind was now whipping through the trees and bushes, and the Doctor chose the biggest, thickest bush he could see and shoved Clara towards it.

“There!” he yelled above the noise, “tuck yourself in there! It’s the best we can do!”

 Clara tripped. Righting herself awkwardly, she blundered into the bush – and was suddenly faced with three small, portly beasts about the size of an overweight Labrador, their blue-grey fur striped with black. The creatures started in fright and set up such an unholy, shrieking racket of fear that Clara was momentarily deafened, even through the horrendous din of the storm.

Clara stumbled backwards, straight into the arms of the Doctor who caught her, and in one fluid movement, set her squarely on her feet and shoved her behind him. His eyes were wide as he looked at the little group of squalling animals, their mouths agape as they emitted a din that made the Doctor wince, even as he began to walk slowly backwards, pushing Clara back with him.

“Oh, no, no, no … we don’t need this … not right now …”

Clara, grasping the Doctor’s arm as tightly as she could, peered around him.

“What are they? Are they dangerous?? Are – “

“Clara!” The Doctor’s voice was dagger-sharp. “Shut it! Keep quiet, and go climb a tree!”

“Tree??” Clara answered, confused.

The Doctor, still slowly moving backwards and trying to maintain a healthy distance between himself and the three squalling creatures, allowed himself a sneer of irritation.

“Clara. TREE. _NOW!!”_

Clara shook her head.

“Not on your life!” She yelled back over the noise of the storm, the screaming creatures and the increasing pounding of the hail. “I’m not climbing a tree in the middle of an electrical storm!!”

For a second the Doctor hesitated, and then he waved a hand, agitated.

“Okay … okay, right … not a brilliant idea … forget I said that …” Even as he crept backwards, his mind was working frantically. “Bush! Head for the bushes behind us! Her eyesight’s really bad, and the storm is upwind of us. She won’t catch your scent! At least I hope she won’t – she has a _really_ good sense of smell!”

Clara, as well as being terrified, was now mightily confused.

“She??? Who the hell is ‘ _she_ ’???”

And as if on cue, the bushes before them were crumpled underfoot as a huge shape arose amongst them. A deep bellow came from a head that was nearly three feet long, the small eyes glinting in the night. Tiny, fur-lined ears lay flat against the armoured plate that covered the neck, and twin rows of nostrils that ran along each side of the creature’s face between muzzle and eyes flared and quivered, the head darting from side to side, trying to find a scent. The beast was at least eight feet tall. The female Lesser Vordal had leapt to the defence of her brood of youngsters.

The Doctor flinched, and then he stood stock still, Clara tucked behind him in the midst of the storm. He glared defiantly at the Lesser Vordal. 

“Well,” he said, teeth bared in a feral grin, “Hello, Missus!”

 

To be continued ...

 


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

The hailstorm was becoming increasingly heavy, but neither the Doctor nor Clara noticed, although the huge Lesser Vordal now standing before them was snorting with a combination of irritation and agitation. Her three small offspring had huddled under a bush and were honking quietly to themselves as the storm crashed through the heavens above them, and a crack of lightning flared blindingly bright, making the little animals mill about with fear. Their mother whipped around, her stubby tail upright, her snorts becoming more and more irate.

“Don’t. Move.” The Doctor ordered as quietly as he could, hoping Clara could hear him over the storm.

“Not movin’!” Clara ground back, her hands clutching the sodden sleeves of the Doctor’s heavy coat. She looked around for something to focus on – anything other than the Lesser Vordal, so close now that she could smell its rank breath. She fixed her gaze on the soaked curls at the nape of the Doctor’s neck, his hair shining wetly in the night. “What do we do?”

She felt the Doctor’s tall frame thrum with tension.

The Lesser Vordal was now raising its huge head to sniff warily at the Doctor, who stood his ground. The smell of rotten meat became stronger.

The Doctor suddenly staggered for a second or two, wincing as a large hailstone connected sharply with his forehead. He felt more than heard Clara’s low exclamation of fright as a warm trickle of blood ran from the resulting cut above his eyebrow, but he dared not raise his hand to wipe it out of his eye.

Clara’s eyes darted to the Lesser Vordal. It was showing a lot of interest in the blood now running down the Doctor’s face. Her heart lurched. She watched as the huge creature blinked tiny eyes and then opened its mouth to stick out a prehensile tongue, a drool of rancid saliva dripping from jaws carrying a very un-herbivore-like set of teeth. The viciously curved tusks glistened. Under her hands, Clara felt the Doctor tense even more, willing himself to stay still as the Lesser Vordal’s tongue ran along his cheekbone, tasting the blood.

“I thought you said there were no large carnivores!” she stage-whispered, eye wide with terror despite the hailstones stinging her face.

The Doctor gave the tiniest of shrugs, even as the Lesser Vordal licked the blood from his cheek, blowing through its nostrils.

“It’s … ahhh … more of an omnivore really –“ he stopped for a second – if he had continued the snake-like tongue would have made its way into his mouth. “ugh …” he shuddered. He couldn’t help himself. “Now then, my lovely …” he said to the beast, the words forcing themselves past clenched teeth, “no tongue. First date. Anyway, your hubby wouldn’t approve.”

The Lesser Vordal’s tiny ears suddenly pricked forward. It was listening. The Doctor’s voice had become low and soothing, the Scots burr soft and calming.

Clara was horrified.

“You said -”

“I know what I said,” the Doctor said conversationally, keeping his voice at that low _timbre_ that was apparently charming the Lesser Vordal. “And it is. Mostly. But they eat carrion too, and they _have_ been known –“ he broke off for a second. The Lesser Vordal was pressing its tongue against the deep cut on his brow with interest. The Doctor gasped with pain, but carried on. “ … they have been known to kill and eat solitary males, especially if they’re already paired, like this one. Otherwise they eat plants.”

“Charming.” Clara watched the Lesser Vordal, seeing how it explored the Doctor’s visage eagerly, tasting the blood. “What are you going to do?? I can’t leave you just standing here, Doctor! For God’s sake, the thing’s planning to _eat you_ –“

“ _I have a plan!_ ” he replied with such certainty and vigour that Clara _knew_ he was lying.

“You don’t have a plan!” she hissed, terrified. “ _There is no plan!”_

“Ah … well … that’s where you’re wrong,” The Doctor said conversationally, even though Clara could see he was hurting. The hailstone had been as big as a golf ball. “I’ll sonic her. Won’t hurt the darling girl. It’ll just give her a bit of a shock.”

Clara blinked.

“Ooookaaayy … and how do you get it out of your pocket without moving?”

The Doctor had to think about that one for a second, then he allowed himself a tiny smile.

“You get it for me. Her eyesight’s pretty poor, especially at night in the middle of a hailstorm. She won’t spot you. I actually don’t think she knows you’re here. Sonic screwdriver’s in my left pocket. Set it on thirty-six. Give her a quick zap and - _boom_. Lesser Vordal with hubby on board and kiddies in tow all run off and we head back to the TARDIS.”

“Not much of a plan!” Clara muttered quietly.

“Well, next time _you_ can stand here bleeding to death and _you_ can think of a better one!”

Clara snorted, despite her fear.

“Call that ‘bleeding to death’? Yeah, right.” She very, _very_ slowly reached around the Doctor’s side and eased her gloved hand into his jacket pocket. She rummaged around for a few moments and hauled out the sonic screwdriver. She gave a small satisfied sound and fiddled with the thing. She found setting thirty-six and aimed the device around the Doctor and straight at the Lesser Vordal, which was now exploring the Doctor’s hair. The Time Lord was not amused.

Clara pressed the button and waited.

Nothing.

Puzzled, she eased her hand back and shook the screwdriver, switching it on and off several times for good measure. Pointing it again, she pressed the button once more.

Still nothing.

The Doctor moved his head as much as he dared to try and see what was happening. The Lesser Vordal grunted softly to herself, slightly alarmed at his movement.

“What’s wrong? Hurry up! I think she’s planning to begin eating my face!” The Doctor sounded a little miffed, Clara thought.

“It’s broken! Nothing’s happening!”

The Doctor gave a _tsk_ of annoyance.

“Number thirty-six!” he growled impatiently.

“Yes,” Clara replied, her voice a mixture of terror and exasperation. “ _I know_! I set it to thirty-six and it did _absolutely nothing_! Are you sure it’s the right setting?”

“You’re asking _me_ if it’s the right setting? Have you broken it?? _Have you broken my sonic screwdriver??_ ”

“No I certainly _have not_! It must be the storm!!”

The Doctor took a shaky breath. He knew Clara was right, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. He would have to come up with something else to get them out of this predicament. He nodded to himself.

“Clara … when I tell you, start moving backwards until you’re in the bushes out of the way.”

She flinched, her free hand tightening once more on the Doctor’s sleeve. “Won’t it notice? And what about you? What are -“

“Clara!” The Doctor’s voice was louder than he intended, and the Lesser Vordal grunted to herself, her nostrils flexing as she sniffed at the Doctor’s throat. “Clara, for once in your life, _do as you’re told_! I’ll be fine! But if I have to move quickly I can’t take the time to save your backside at the same time! _Do you understand what I’m saying_??”

For long seconds all of them were still, Time Lord, human and Lesser Vordal, even as the sky above them tore itself apart, lightning arcing across the blackness, thunder right above them, within them, echoing to their very bones. The hailstorm had intensified, but the frozen balls had become wetter and the temperature had risen slightly. The wind was whipping the hailstones into semi-frozen sleet, a snowstorm gradually taking over from the punishing onslaught.

The Doctor raised his head slightly, his face bloody and stark in the unbearably brilliant flashes of light around them, like a stag scenting the air. The decision was made. Clara hadn’t answered him, and he knew then that she understood. She was in the way. She had to remove herself from the scene, and let the Doctor deal with the situation. He really didn’t have any idea how he was going to solve the issue, but Clara had … _had_ … to be safe. He would not allow anything less.

“Get back,” he growled softly. “Walk backwards to the bushes, like I told you.” He paused, waiting for her to step away from him. “Clara … _move. Go. NOW_.”

A soft sound came to him then, a hurt sound he could hear even through the battering storm. Her hands left his arms, and he sensed more than heard her slowly and warily ease backwards into the night, stepping further and further into the shadow afforded by the thicket of shrubs behind them.

The Doctor smiled.

_Good girl._

He turned to the matter in hand.

“All right then, pretty lady, let’s see if we can solve our wee problem,” he said, voice low and calm. The Lesser Vordal pricked her ears once more, listening. “Now then, lass, I’m going to take a step away and make it easier for you to smell your babies. I won’t get in the way. You just go on now, and look after your bairns.. I’ll just go over here” he nodded towards the bushes to his right, “and let you get on. No worries, eh?”

He took a slow step sideways. The Lesser Vordal didn’t move, but the huge head swung sideways, curious.

“See?” The Doctor squinted against the sleet, the freezing blizzard making his head ache and his wound throb. “Not touching the children. Just staying out of the way, okay?” He took another two steps sideways. Still the huge animal didn’t move, and the Doctor allowed himself a grin. “You’re a very bonny girl, but you have even less brains than humans – and that’s saying something.” His tone was gentleness itself. “Now then, off you go to the kiddies, and everything will be just grand, yeah?”

Three more steps. He was almost there. A couple more steps and he would be amongst the bushes, downwind of the creature. And once he couldn’t be sensed by her acute nose, then it would simply be a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ Clara and he could wait out the storm, and head back to the TARDIS when the weather eased, as he knew it would. He could already see clear night skies in the distance.

“There, see how easy this is?” he soothed, “you just keep listening, and before you know it I’ll be out of your way. Promise.”

He tried one more step away to his right, and he could almost feel Clara’s eyes burning a hole in his back in a silent agony of fear. She was frightened for him.

_That’s nice. I wasn’t expecting that._

He was almost there …

And the tree to his left in the small clearing exploded as twin lightning strikes hit the tall, naked branches. The noise was deafening and the Doctor was momentarily blinded by the white-hot flashes. The tree shattered and burst into flames, showering burning splinters around the clearing. Several bounced harmlessly off his shoulder as he raised his arms to protect himself, and more landed on the Lesser Vordal’s back. The three Vordal youngsters ran shrieking straight towards the Doctor.

For the second time that day, the Doctor heard Clara scream.

“ _DOCTOR!! WATCH OUT!!!_ ”

But he was already moving, trying frantically to get out of the way.

He was a fraction too late.

The Lesser Vordal, disorientated by the lighting strike and pained by the burning fragments of wood landing on her back, swung around towards the Doctor. Her terrified and screaming brood of babies barrelled straight into the Doctor, almost upending him, but he was prevented from falling by the Lesser Vordal.

Her massive jaws with their razor-sharp tusks clamped tightly onto his right shoulder and lifted him bodily from the ground.

His back arched and his yell of pure agony was cut off suddenly as she shook him like a rag and then flung him aside, droplets of stinking saliva spraying into the whirl of sleety snow around them. The Doctor’s lean frame smashed against a dead tree and then fell to the ground. He didn’t move again.

“ _NO!!! DOCTOR!! NO-NO-NO –“_

Clara watched the attack, petrified. She saw the Doctor’s tall frame collapse, unmoving, and then all sense left her. Waving the useless sonic screwdriver, she burst from her hiding place and ran full pelt, yelling and bawling and shouting, arms waving wildly, a bundle of anger and fearless bravado, straight towards the Lesser Vordal.

The huge animal’s head swung around in response to the noise, even as she gathered up her shrieking brood.

Prevented by the wind from identifying this apparition by smell and her poor eyesight failing to figure out what kind of noisy monster was rapidly approaching, the Lesser Vordal propped, her legs rigid, suddenly unsure.

The odd creature kept coming, a stream of noise coming from it, its multi-coloured head startling in the white of the storm. It certainly appeared threatening, whatever it was

The Lesser Vordal came to a decision in its tiny brain.

 _Run_. _Protect the children_.

Turning away from the approaching creature, she tucked her stubby tail between her legs, called her babies to her with a short, chopping grunt, and was off at a hasty trot away from whatever-it-was that was on the point of attack.

Clara caught a brief glimpse of a small, greyish body with atrophied legs, blinking owlishly with filmy eyes as it lay tucked beneath the Lesser Vordal’s bony neck plate. _The husband_ , Clara realised.

 _S_ he staggered to a halt, the yells dying in her throat. She leant over and rested her hands on her knees, catching her breath, adrenalin still pumping. Then her eyes widened.

The Doctor.

_Oh God._

She stumbled over to the still body lying on its side beside the broken tree trunk, and dropped breathlessly to her knees.

“Doctor! Doctor, I’m here! You’re safe!” She shoved the sonic screwdriver into her jacket pocket, and removing her gloves with her teeth, gently touched his face. The blood still oozed from the wound on his head. His pepper-and-salt curls were plastered to his skull, soaked by the storm. She leaned over him and touched his cheek. He felt chilled, but that wasn’t unusual. His body temperature was lower than a human’s, and his refusal to wear a hat had meant that his exposed skin was cold to the touch.

Moving to his hands, she eased off one of his gloves and felt for a pulse.

“Oh, thank god!” she sighed gustily with relief. The twin heartbeat sent faint but steady pulses through the veins in his wrist. He was still alive. But how badly was he hurt? And how was she going to save them both? The TARDIS was too far away. Clara couldn’t abandon the Doctor to go and retrieve the old blue box. He would die, without a doubt.

Cradling his head gently, she eased herself down beside him and prepared to check his injuries.

She sat back on her heels, holding the Doctor’s hand, and realised she had sat like this only twenty-seven days ago on the muddy banks of the Thames river, on a smog-ridden Victorian evening. She had held the newly-regenerated Time Lord in her arms and realised nothing would be the same again. And now … would he die? Would he regenerate once again, and become someone even more alien to Clara in every way? She didn’t know if she could stand it.

Clara Oswin Oswald suddenly realised that the Doctor’s life lay in her hands.

Gritting her teeth, she knew she had to do something, no matter what the outcome.

Stroking her thumb over the back of his hand, she whispered softly as she endured the fierceness of the night around her.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” she said. “I’ll figure this out. I promise.”

But even as she said it, she wept … and was afraid.

 

To be continued ...


	5. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Within five seconds, Clara decided most emphatically that weeping wasn’t getting her anywhere. She was a woman of common sense, someone who had organisational skills that would impress even the most pernickety of tax inspectors, and she was stranded on an ice-world in the middle of a blizzard with a badly hurt and unconscious Time Lord on her hands. _She had to regain control_.

Dabbling away tears already freezing in the bitter air, she tried to methodically check out the Doctor’s injuries and plan a course of action.

He lay slightly on his left side, propped by the backpack still strapped on his back, long limbs sprawled bonelessly on the slushy ground, his head cradled by Clara’s arm. She very carefully eased her arm out from beneath his head and examined the wound on his brow which was messy and bloody, but far from dangerous. His right shoulder, however … she touched the torn material of the Doctor’s heavy fur-lined jacket. Great rents ran through the padding front and back, but with the poor visibility she couldn’t make out whether there was any bleeding or not. She wondered whether she dared to unzip the jacket to see what damage those teeth and tusks had done to the Doctor’s shoulder. The thing had teeth like a dinosaur –

A big hand suddenly grasped her wrist, long fingers wound so tightly around the bone that she couldn’t suppress a whimper. Shadowed eyes beneath fierce eyebrows snapped open and gazed at her with an intensity that sent a thrill to her heart.

“BIG … SEXY … _WOMAN!!_ ” The Scottish accent was deep and vibrant, throbbing with vitality.

“Wh … what???” Clara had a split second of profound relief that the Doctor was conscious, and then her temper reasserted itself. “Big??? Who??? ME??? Has that bang on the head scrambled those oh-so-huge grey cells of yours? Who are you calling ‘ _big_ ’??” But there was no sting in her voice. She knew he needed grounding, needed her to be the Clara who cared, who nurtured … who couched her concern in snark and bossiness. And the knowledge that he was awake and aware – after a fashion – filled her with hope.

The Doctor gazed up at her, blinking slowly, languidly. The intensity in his eyes had lessened and softened into confusion and, she realised with a jolt, terrible pain.

“Dinosaur … “ his voice was gruff, edged with agony. “Big woman … so sexy … not you …” he took a deep breath and moaned with the discomfort it brought him. “Oohhh … ribs …”

Clara shook her head. “The only man I know who finds a dino sexy.” For a second, she wondered if that had been some sort of psychic vibe between them. Given their history, she wouldn’t be surprised. With the other one. The _before-this-one_ Doctor. _Her_ Doctor.

She shook the thought off and touched his face with her free hand, soothing him. “Easy now … please … stay still while I check you out, okay?”

“Clara … “ The grip on her wrist lessened and the Doctor’s voice was strengthening. “ … I’m … I’m fine, really … just bruises …”

Clara studied him for a moment, his features faint in the storm-ridden night, the rumbles of thunder becoming more distant. The whirl around them now was pure, wet snow, and the temperature was rapidly dropping. Their situation was desperately dangerous.

“Doctor, that thing _bit you_. I need to see that you’re not bleeding to death for _real_ this time! So be still –“

“No!” The gruffness in his voice made him sound testy. “No … “ the voice was gentler now, “it’s only bruises and a few cuts. And probably two – “ he took a breath as deeply as he dared, “ – maybe three cracked ribs. Nothing that won’t heal in a few days.”

Clara wasn’t having any of it.

“Maybe that’s true, but I have to make sure you don’t bleed out before then, you big idiot. So come on, let’s have a look –“

“ _Clara._ ”

The grip on her wrist tightened again, but this time it was gentle, arrestingly so.

“I’ll be fine, really. Help me up.”

And before Clara could answer, the Doctor was levering himself up onto the elbow of his left arm. He kept his right arm tucked into his side, trying to keep it as still as possible.

Without thinking, she instinctively eased herself behind him and supported him as best she could, her arms around him, backpack and all. He rested for a moment, his head against her shoulder. She could feel him trembling with the effort of moving, but she knew he wouldn’t stop until he was on his feet.

And in her heart, she knew he was right. They could not stay here any longer. They had to get back to the TARDIS, where warmth and care and healing would take away the horror.

“Doctor …” She leaned her head against his wet curls and for a moment they were still, a quiet few seconds of being just the Doctor and Clara, the Time Lord and the Impossible Girl, gathering strength to take on the universe. Or, at this very minute, gathering enough strength to stand up and stay standing. “Whenever you’re ready, okay?”

“Think … think I’ll need a hand …” The Doctor shifted and she heard his muffled grunt of pain.

“Gotcha!” she answered, and he could hear the confidence in her voice. Despite the agony, he felt hope in his hearts.

It took fifteen minutes of gentle pulling, cajoling, grumping and complaining (by the Doctor), apologies coupled with irritation and bossing-about (by Clara), but finally, between them, they got the Doctor to his feet.

“Whoa there!” Clara warned, placing her hand gingerly on the left hand side of his chest, steadying him as he swayed dangerously, threatening to keel over. “Don’t you dare fall over, y’hear me? I just about threw my back out getting you upright!”

The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at her, even as he straightened, the wind and the heavy snowstorm whipping around them both.

“You’re a tough little thing, aren’t you?” he said, allowing just the faintest hint of admiration to creep into his voice.

“Is that a compliment?” She grinned at him, despite the snow stinging her face. “Don’t tell me you’re being nice!”

“Now, why would I do that?” he retorted, a little of the growl returning to his voice. But even as he said it, he shivered. He hunched his shoulders, and bit back a cry of pain as his wounds objected to the movement. “Bitey,” he muttered. “It’s … bitey, and wet, and … I hurt, Clara.” The Doctor suddenly sounded so terribly vulnerable.

Clara rubbed her hand over his chest, not knowing how to make it any easier on him. She took a deep breath, and let common sense take over. That would be of more use to them right now than sentiment.

“You should put on my hat,” she said, reaching to take the _chullo_ from her head.

“Not on your life,” he replied, bristling indignantly. Considering that he was soaking wet, injured, exhausted and very, very sore, Clara wasn’t very impressed with his denial. She shook her head, suddenly annoyed.

“Prat. Do you want to catch pneumonia on top of everything else?”

“Pneumonia?” The Doctor scoffed weakly. “Pneumonia wouldn’t dare come near me. My immune system would eat pneumonia alive. For _breakfast_.”

Clara had had enough.

“Oh, shut up, you!” Clara’s tone was acid. “Now be as still as you can, because I’m going to take that backpack off. I’ll carry it.”

The Doctor objected.

“No way José, I can manage –“

“Oh, be quiet!”

“I will not –“

“ _Shut it!”_

“Don’t you tell me to –“

“I _said_ … SHUT _. IT_.”

And as they argued, Clara unbuckled the straps of the backpack, slid it from the Doctor’s back as gently as she could, refastened the straps and slipped it onto her own shoulders.

“See? You can banter all you like, Doctor. It’s done and dusted. Now, let’s get a move on. I want to get you back to the TARDIS and see to those cuts and bruises.”

The Doctor, with Clara guiding him and supporting him by his good arm, pulled a face as they began to slowly walk out of the copse and towards the faint looming presence of the escarpment.

“That wasn’t _banter_. I don’t _do_ banter. I _hate_ banter. That was having a good _bicker_. There is a whole _universe_ of difference!”

 _There – that’s more like it!_ thought Clara. _He’ll do. He’ll have to. We have quite a way to go._

And the snow and the wind closed about them, and the copse soon resounded with nothing more than the wail of the storm.

* * *

 

The walk seemed to take an age, or so Clara thought. Relying more on the Doctor’s apparently unerring sense of direction – “This way, Clara … no, no, _listen_ … _this way!_ ” – they slowly made their way through fading blizzard conditions to the escarpment, which loomed closer and closer. Their saviour was the huge, silver moon, which shone so brightly that it managed to penetrate the snow-ridden clouds above. The escarpment gleamed dully, huge and obsidian black - and terrifying.

Clara shuddered. The thought of climbing those long, frighteningly dangerous steps in this dreadful environment had her heart hammering in her chest. She was sure the Doctor, had he been well, would have heard it.

The Doctor was also worrying the wits out of her. He walked steadily, it was true, sure in his judgement of where they were and what they had to do to get there. But, Clara had to admit, he looked ghastly.

He supported his injured right shoulder by cradling the arm against his chest, but his damaged ribs forbade any more than that. The Doctor, normally straight and tall, was oddly hunched, and every step saw lips pressed firmly together with a wince, muscles jumping along his jaw. He was hurting. Hurting _badly_.

Clara finally had had enough.

“STOP!”

The Doctor came stiffly to a standstill, flinching as his boot slid sideways on a wet pebble. He stood, head hanging, too tired to ask Clara the reason for the halt in their progress.

She stood in front of him, looking up into a face lined with pain and exhaustion. He was now shivering uncontrollably.

“Take a moment, Doctor, _please_. Just a bit of a breather.”

Weary eyes studied her.

“Clara … we can’t stop. We don’t have time for this.” His voice was back to its usual no-nonsense reserve.

“No, _we_ don’t,” she agreed, “ but _you_ have to rest, even if it’s just for a moment. Take a minute.”

Pulling off a glove, she reached up to touch his cheek.

He tensed.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” Clara’s exasperation could not be controlled any more. “ _Listen_ , mister-please-don’t touch-me-I’m-a-Time-Lord, I’m just checking to see if you have a fever – oh my god!” she exclaimed as she pulled her hand back from his skin. “You’re warm! You’re _never_ warm! “ She touched his cheek again with the back of her hand. Yep – it was warm, like a human’s. For a Time Lord, with his low body temperature, he was rife with fever. “You’re burning up!”

The Doctor found the strength to scowl.

“Rubbish! I’m perfectly fine. Stop fussing!” He swayed, his face paling even more in the snow-ridden gloom.

Clara steadied him, using her slight frame to brace him until he regained his balance. She wiped her hand over her eyes, and looked towards the escarpment. It couldn’t be long now, surely.

“We’ll be there soon, Clara. I promise.”

His tone had gentled. He knew she was scared.

“I … I know. I’m just … it’s just …”

“The Doctor did his best not to lean on her, and quirked his mouth into a nearly-smile.

“Hey, how’s about we head off somewhere warm next time?” he said as brightly as he could. “New Florida, maybe? Dinner … sunset walk along the beach … laze in the sun for a day or two … I’ll even wear a hat!” he added.

Clara took a deep breath and smiled up at him.

“All right. You’re on. And definitely no running. Promise?”

The Doctor pursed his lips, thinking.

“Okay. It’s a date.” He blinked. “But not a _real_ date … a _date_ date … just a date … one we’ve decided on for a trip … “ he tailed off lamely. He decided to excuse his badly-behaved mouth and its runaway habits as the result of a fever which he denied having.

Clara shook her head. _Berk_.

“Right, c’mon, you. Pick up those feet and get walking. We have a pile of steps to climb, and we don’t have all night.”

The Doctor, hurting, weary to the bone and just about out on his feet, grinned.

“Yes _boss!_ ”

And the two of them headed slowly and painfully into the night.

* * *

 

The escarpment loomed above them, glittering in the dark, more visible now as the snow storm had lessened. The wind had dropped and the snow just fell steadily, creating a landscape ethereal in its dark beauty.

Clara looked up at the edge, and could just make out a small, rectangular shape far above them, silhouetted against the sky, snow clouds breaking occasionally to let beams of moonlight shine through. The TARDIS was there, waiting for them, with her safety and warmth and respite, ready to heal the Doctor and sooth their fears.

“There she is!” Clara whispered to the Doctor.

He managed to peer upwards, and nodded.

“See? I told you we’d make it.”

Clara patted him on his good arm.

“Yes. Yes, you did. Who’s a clever Doctor, then?” she teased.

“I am, miss smarty-pants!” he answered, a smile in his voice. “We’re nearly home, Clara.”

And Clara suddenly realised that the TARDIS _was_ home. Her little flat was home too, but the TARDIS was where she decided she belonged. At least for now.

They stood for a moment, getting themselves ready for the ordeal ahead. Clara could now feel the heat radiating through the Doctor’s heavy coat. He was becoming light-headed with the fever, and they had had to stop more and more frequently to let him rest. Now he had a long haul up a set of wickedly dangerous steps ahead … and his balance wasn’t good. Clara swallowed her fear, and headed to the base of the steps, guiding the Doctor now, knowing he needed her more than ever.

A brilliant shaft of moonlight suddenly broke through the clouds, setting the escarpment aflame with silvered glory. Looking up, Clara gasped.

“ _Oh god!”_

Before them lay hundreds of tons of obsidian, huge boulders lay scattered along the base of the escarpment. A line of cracks ran down what was left of the escarpment wall where lightning had done its work all too well.

The long line of steps had disappeared.

Their only path to the TARDIS had been destroyed, and they had no way home. They were well and truly stuck.

 

To be continued …

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

Clara, terrified, turned to the Doctor as she felt him sag against her. His visage was grimness personified. But oddly, she realised, there was no sense of defeat in the lines of his face. Instead she sensed unwillingness. And, she knew with a jolt, infinite sadness.

“Doctor, tell me what to do! I don’t know –“

“Shush! I’m thinking!” His voice was suddenly sharp and clear with no hint of weakness or pain.

Clara frowned … but squashed the fear that was threatening to overwhelm her and stayed silent.

The Doctor stared intensely at the escarpment and then shifted, trying to ease the pain.

“Clara …”

She looked up at him, her brown eyes now clear and ready.

“What can I do?” she simply said.

“Help me. I can’t … I don’t know how long I can carry on walking. And we need to do a thing.”

Clara nodded.

“All right. What kind of thing?”

“We must go to a safe haven. A place of shelter. At least I’ll be able to think without both of us freezing to death.”

He frowned, wincing as the action pulled at the wound in his brow.

Clara was puzzled. She could hear the reluctance in his voice, as though this was the last thing he wanted to do but knowing he had no choice.

“Where is it?” she asked.

The Doctor turned to his left, gazing through the snow along the towering wall of the escarpment.

“There. About a mile away. It’ll be easy to find.” His eyes closed for a moment in utter exhaustion. “But I don’t know if I can … _I’m tired, Clara_.”

That simple declaration broke her.

Reaching up, Clara touched his cheek, and she smiled.

“Don’t worry. We’ll make it. Both of us. And I promise you … I _won’t let you fall_.”

“Of course you won’t,” he said, and Clara swore she could hear that faint note of admiration once again. “You’re my Impossible Girl. Falling isn’t allowed.”

“Come on then … let’s find this haven of yours. Both of us will think better if we’re sheltered and able to get some rest.” Clara moved to the Doctor’s left side. “Brace yourself – I’m going to put my arm around you – and don’t get any ideas!” And before the Doctor could bluster a weary but highly indignant response, Clara eased her arm around his waist and her other arm cradled his, supporting his wounded shoulder. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

The Doctor suddenly discovered that there was less pressure on his damaged ribs and his shoulder was a little easier, the pain not quite so agonising.

“S’pose,” he muttered, grudgingly.

“You’re welcome.” Clara gave one final glance at the remains of the ancient stairs, and had to admit to herself that no matter what happened next, she was incredibly pleased she didn’t have to tackle the nightmare of trying to climb them in a snowstorm with a badly injured Time Lord in tow. The relief in her heart was almost palpable. They would find a way back to the TARDIS. She just knew it. All she had to do was keep the Doctor alive until they could figure out a solution to their problem.

Turning back to the situation in hand, she looked up at the Doctor. He gazed back at her, his face wan and fevered, and gave her a great big wink.

Clara, charmed to bits, let loose a throaty chuckle.

The Doctor was incorrigible.

“Oi! Behave, you! Keep your winks to yourself. We have places to go, people to see. So get your bony backside into gear and get started. I could really, _really_ do with being dry again sometime this century, so hit the road, Jack!”

Clara gave the Doctor’s waist a gentle tug, and they eased into a slow, uncoordinated walk.

“I remember the day Percy Mayfield – _ow_ \- and I wrote that song. Stevie … Stevie loved it.” The Doctor said, trying to focus on the memory and not on the pain. “What a night we had recording _that_ one, I can tell you!”

Clara, trying to make sure neither of them took a wrong step to land in a heap in six inches of snow, raised her eyebrows.

“Stevie?”

The Doctor snorted then regretted it as his shoulder objected. His head throbbed in time to his heartbeats, and the pain was almost unbearable.

“Stevie, Clara … Stevie Wonder!” he ground out, “Don’t you know anything? Call yourself a teacher …”

And so it went on, one helping the other, the broken soul of the lonely traveller calming the gentle carer, as they moved unsteadily through the night towards a place the Doctor called ‘haven’.

* * *

 

It took them nearly two hours to shuffle the route to their destination. Every dozen steps or so they had to stop, just to allow the Doctor to try and control the pain. Clara held him and supported him, and whispered words of comfort and encouragement. In return the Doctor told her ridiculous stories and complained about Clara walking too fast, about her cold hands (even though she wore gloves and he wore a heavy coat) and about her constant bossiness. Between them they made slow but sure progress as the snowstorm eased, and the lightning became nothing more than distant flashes over the sea.

The first view they had of their goal was one of fire.

Two lines of dead trees, an avenue of brittle, dry trunks and branches led away from the base of the escarpment, stark in the brilliant moon-rays breaking through thinning clouds.

The five trees nearest to the escarpment were ablaze, flames licking like living tongues into the air and reflecting in the black glassy wall of the cliff. Red and orange darkened in a mirror image, sinister and alien in the night, the relic of the lightning that had already caused so much damage through this night.

“There!” croaked the Doctor, his throat dry with fever. “In the cliff. See?”

Clara squinted in the crisp, cold air and tried to make out whatever-it-was the Doctor wanted her to see. Her arms ached with the effort of supporting the Doctor, and she was very cold, wet and, she had to admit, hungry.

It took her almost two minutes to find what she was looking for – a tall, square doorway cut deeply into the escarpment’s vertical side. Faint carvings could be seen around the edges, and the doors themselves were bulky and threatening. There they were, solid and heavy, studded with bosses of some unknown metal that shone in the faint light.

As they drew closer Clara began to make out extraordinary shapes carved into the metal around the bosses … strange, beautiful creatures swirling and twisting, intertwined with one another, jaws agape and claws outstretched. The designs almost gave the doors a three-dimensional quality … they were strange, arcane, and very, very beautiful.

Clara peered up at the doors as they finally came to a halt before them, the light from the burning trees sending haunting shadows against the swirling carvings. They seemed _alive_.

“What _is_ this place?” she asked, eyes wide with wonder.

The Doctor leaned on Clara. He couldn’t help himself. The pain was … _terrible_.

“The Padú-Kerai,” he said, his voice weak with exhaustion. “The last haven of the Vendraloii.”

Clara instinctively held him a little tighter.

“You’ve been here before.” It was a statement, not a question.

“ _Yes_.”

That one word seemed to drain what little fight was left in the Doctor, and Clara felt him give up, his lanky frame beginning to sag.

“Oh, no you don’t!” she scolded, “don’t you even think about passing out right now! You can do that as soon as we’re out of the weather, and not before, alright??”

The Doctor took as deep a breath as he could, and gave her a lop-sided smile.

“Oh … okay. _Such_ a control freak, you are …”

If he’d not been so sick Clara would have given him a good bossing about and a clip around the ear, just for good measure, but she didn’t have the heart for bickering, no matter how much he thrived on it.

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” Clara griped back. “Right. Let’s get out of the cold, eh? And then you can have a bit of a rest.”

She reached out with her left hand and touched the left-side door, initially just to see how solid and heavy it was, but was surprised when it swung partly open.

“I hardly touched it!”

“Vendraloii engineering … beautifully balanced. Clever people,” the Doctor whispered.

The light from the burning trees behind them gave a glimpse of dark, smooth walls and a sense of space within, and the Doctor took a step forward through the open doorway, Clara at his side supporting him as well as she could.

As Clara passed into the Padú-Kerai she touched the door once more, and it swung completely open on massive, silent hinges, allowing more firelight to guide their way into the darkness.

They were in a corridor. A great corridor with smooth, plain walls and stone benches on either side. Running ahead of them down the middle of the corridor were a series of low, stone tables or seats, and between each one was a circular, hollow stone containing the remains of fires. And on the earthen floor, Clara was surprised to find, were carpets. Many were threadbare and crumbling, but others still retained some colour and form, the cold, dry environment preserving them. The weave was dense and woolly, and the once-rich colours held images similar to the creatures carved on the great doors.

“Hmm,” Clara said. “Not bad. Cosy even.”

“The Hall of Mourning,” the Doctor muttered.

Clara pulled a face.

“Maybe _not_ so cosy,” she said. “Still, it’s dry and out of the weather. We can even get a fire going.” She peered ahead into the darkness and listened for a moment. Silence. Silence, she decided, was good. No rustling in the dark, no hissing or clicking or moaning. That was a plus, she thought, considering the night they were having.

“Okay, Doctor – sit.”

She found the nearest bench-table-thing and eased him down onto it, where he sat, hunched and miserable.

Crouching down before him, she touched his hand for a second.

“Once we have a fire going I’m going to check out your shoulder. And then _you_ , you big lug, are going to lie down and try to rest. We can’t do anything until daylight – and tell me why we didn’t bring a torch??” she added, mystified.

The Doctor smiled bitterly.

“Didn’t think we’d need one,” he replied. “Remind me not to do that again.”

“Will do,” Clara said. “That’s part of the job. Reminder-Girl. You need to pay me more.”

The Doctor gave her the faintest of grins, which, Clara had to admit, was better than nothing.

“It’s a shame the sonic’s not working,” she added. “It would make lighting a fire so much easier.”

The Doctor shook his head, an action he immediately regretted as burning pain flared through his body.

“The … the sonic would be no use. It doesn’t do wood.”

“Really?” Clara was genuinely surprised. “Well that’s something I didn’t know. I thought it could do anything, including cook a seven-course banquet and cure the common cold.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Clara. You’re an English teacher, you should know that.” The Doctor always felt better after a good complain. “Although given the level of education you humans have come up with -“ he shifted, wincing. “It’s a wonder you can tie your own shoelaces.”

Clara gave him a cheeky grin.

“Once again with the bickering, Doctor. Such a curmudgeon, you are.”

She reached out and touched his forehead, checking his fever. He didn’t react at all, which worried her even more. His temperature was climbing higher, his eyes bright with illness. He had a few cuts and bruises, he said, and some cracked ribs – how did that constitute a high fever? She chewed her lip, fretting. Maybe that was how Gallifreyans reacted to such injuries.

 _Fire_ , she thought. _He’s shivering, he’s wet and he’s cold. I need to get him warm and cared-for_. And water. He needed water. He was severely dehydrated, she decided.

Right. To work.

She took off the backpack and left it beside the Doctor. Within fifteen minutes she had gathered quite a collection of broken branches from the avenue of dead trees, and cleared the remains of ancient fires out of two of the circular hollowed stones, one on each side of the Doctor.

The last job was to find a branch still aflame, and this was a little trickier. It took a little bit of effort to find one that was sturdy enough to carry, and then everything else fell into place. Her collection of branches were divided between the two fire stones and set alight, and within minutes each carried a healthy blaze, filling the huge space and sending out both light and heat.

Satisfied, Clara nodded to herself. Just another collection of branches to keep the fires going through the night, and then she could breathe a little easier and tend to her companion.

The Doctor was worrying the soul out of her. She could see the beads of perspiration on his skin, even though the atmosphere was still cold enough in the corridor to mist breath. The fever was taking a stronger hold.

She sat beside him for a moment, and leaned into him. She was surprised and touched when he leaned back, resting his good shoulder against hers.

“Hey there. How’re you doing?” She asked quietly.

The Doctor gazed back at her with fever-bright eyes.

“Oh … I couldn’t even manage to fight off a randy squirrel while wearing a straitjacket, but other than that I’m doing just fine,” he griped breathlessly.

“No squirrels here,” Clara said. “Just us time travellers. You be a good boy and stay put while I get some more wood, and then I’ll see if I can figure out why you’re hotter than Mount Etna.”

The Doctor managed the tiniest of smiles.

“Yes _Ma’am_.”

Clara grinned back. God, she loved it when he was sarky.

The Doctor watched her as she rose from the seat beside him, and he felt the loss of contact dearly. _How did that suddenly become easier?_ He wondered to himself. But as he watched her head out into the frozen world outside, he frowned.

“Wobbly,” he said to himself. “Everything’s … wobbly and bendy and not clear and … and … “

And suddenly everything telescoped into darkness and became … nothing.

* * *

 

Clara staggered under the weight of the largest pile of branches that she could carry and managed to carry it back into the corridor, where she dropped the whole lot on the floor. She wiped her hands on her coat, and turned to the Doctor.

He wasn’t there.

“ _Oh no_.”

And then she spotted a boot peeking out from behind the stone table-bench-thing.

“Oh, _no-no-no-_ “ Panic seized her, shook her to her very core.

Scrambling around her woodpile, she saw the Doctor sprawled on the ground, limbs lax and eyes closed. He was out like a light.

Dropping to her knees beside him, she felt for a pulse and was gratified to find the familiar double-beat of his twin hearts. So, she was relieved to find, at least he wasn’t dead.

Unzipping his jacket she eased it back from his injured shoulder … and froze in horror.

“ _Oh god!”_

The blood was everywhere. It had soaked through his shirt, the lining of his jacket, and now onto her hands. She held them up before her and the redness glistened in the firelight.

She looked back at the Doctor, unconscious and bleeding on the floor of this ancient place, and he _hadn’t told her_. He hadn’t trusted her to stay calm. That made Clara Oswald very angry indeed.

“You …you … _MORON!_ ” she said loudly, her voice echoing slightly in the still air.

But the Doctor was too far away from her to hear.

She was completely alone.

 

To be continued …

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

“You idiot! You absolute _berk!_ ”

Clara railed at the unconscious Time Lord sprawled on the floor of the great corridor, even as she grabbed the backpack and emptied it out beside her. Among the remains of sandwiches and cake she found a dinky little first aid kit and, for some absurd reason, a huge bath towel. The napkins and steel flask she put aside for later, along with the tartan blanket. A fleeting thought flew through her mind like a passing swallow – the backpack must be bigger on the inside. A TARDIS-y backpack.

 _Never mind that_ , she told herself – _I have to stop the bleeding! The pillock’s BLEEDING!!_

Easing the Doctor onto his good side, she peeled the jacket off his injured shoulder and instantly caught her breath. His back was also soaked with blood from a deep puncture wound above his shoulder blade. It matched the one she found below his clavicle in his upper chest. The Lesser Vordal’s tusks had done their bloody work.

Opening the little first aid kit she was dismayed to find nothing but a pair of blunt-nosed scissors, a few sticking plasters and an odd assortment of little bandages coupled with a card pierced through by three safety pins.

“What sort of first aid kit d’you call this?” she demanded, even though she knew the Doctor couldn’t hear her.

She realised then that she would just have to make do.

Using the little pair of scissors she cut away the remains of the shirt, discovering as she did so that some of the bloodstains were stiff and dry, meaning that the bleeding had originally stopped and had only begun again when the Doctor passed out and slid from the stone table-bench-thing.

The beach towel was next. Clara clipped the stitched edging and tore the towel into a number of big squares. Steeling herself, she folded two of the squares into pads, laid them against the open wounds and pressed hard.

The Doctor moaned, his eyelids flickering open and his breath hissing between his teeth.

“ _Good god, woman_ … that … that _hurts_ …”

“Shut up, you!” Clara snapped angrily. “I’m not talking to you right now!”

She pressed harder, and the Doctor grunted with the agony of it.

“I have to stop the bleeding, so you can yell all you like! You’re lucky you didn’t bleed to death, you … you … oh, why do I bother!” Clara muttered, frustrated beyond belief and worried sick.

“Thought … thought you weren’t talking … talking to me …”

“I’m not!”

Clara kept up the pressure, even as she swore under her breath.

“Language!” the Doctor whispered, trying not to move. He discovered he was fighting a losing battle against the fever consuming him, and he shivered in the chilled air. “C-cold … so cold …”

Clara felt a tear form in her eye, but she ignored it. Right now she couldn’t wipe it away. The Doctor needed her, despite the fact that she was absolutely furious with him. She glanced downwards at the supine figure before her. Not only was his shoulder badly mangled by the Lesser Vordal’s attack, but a huge, ugly row of dark bruises peppered with nasty abrasions ran down his ribcage, the Doctor’s whipcord-lean frame having crashed with frightening force against the dead tree when the beast flung him through the air. Clara winced. How on earth had he coped with the pain?

She lifted one of the pads to check the wound below, and was relieved to find the blood flow had almost stopped. She narrowed her eyes in the flickering firelight. _What the_ …?? Dark lines radiated from the wound, angry and reddened, and the wound itself was heavily inflamed.

Re-applying the pad, she tilted her head to check the wound in his back. The same sinister lines were beginning to run along the Doctor’s shoulder blade. Clara paled. _Infection_. It had to be. But how had it set in so quickly?

“Saliva …”

Clara frowned.

“What?”

The Doctor peered at her blearily. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“You … you’re wondering about the fever.” His voice was shaky. “Saliva. The … the Lesser Vordal … eats carrion sometimes … bacteria … poisonous …”

 _Oh, dear god_.

“What do I do?” she whispered.

The Doctor smiled mirthlessly.

“Get … get me to the TARDIS … that’s what … what you can do.” He took a shallow, agonised breath. “And … and you can’t.”

Clara chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to control the panic. She couldn’t give up. She _wouldn’t_ give up. She looked down at the Doctor. His eyes were closed, the lines of his face deepened by pain. His life was in her hands. As always. She was born to save him … _and save him she would_.

“You can stop now with the rubbish talk,” she huffed. “We’ll find a way. We always do.”

“What … whatever you say …” The Doctor’s breath hitched as a spasm of pain hit him.

“Here – hold this,” Clara instructed, deciding to give the Doctor something to do to take his mind off the pain. She lifted his left hand and, trying not to leave smears of blood all over the place, pressed it over the pad on his shoulder. She then wadded the loosened arm of the Doctor’s coat under his shoulder blade to hold the other pad in place, easing the Doctor onto his back to help keep up the pressure.

The Doctor, for once, did as he was told, and Clara wiped her hands as free from blood ( _HIS blood_ ) as she could on the smallest of the towelling squares. She dearly wished she had some water.

Realisation struck, and Clara groaned.

Stupid, _stupid, STUPID_.

There was plenty of water about. Hundreds of gallons of the stuff, in fact, just waiting to be retrieved. All she had to do was go outside and pick it up.

Feeling energized, Clara reached for the steel flask and removed the two metal cups that made up its lid.

Leaning over the Doctor, Clara touched his face.

“Listen, you!”

The Doctor, who was apparently resting his eyelids, opened one eye, squinting up at her.

“Listenin’ …”

“I’m going outside to get some snow to melt. You’re dehydrated, and I could do with cleaning you up properly and we need water. So don’t you go moving about, okay?”

“As … as if I would dare …”

Clara frowned, disbelieving. The beggar had a habit of fibbing. She narrowed her eyes.

“No crawling, wriggling, trying to sit up or poking at these holes you have in you. You’ll start the bleeding again, and I don’t have the kit to keep plugging wounds. You understand??”

The Doctor looked as though he was going to try thinking about it, but before he could answer, Clara laid the palm of her hand on the centre of his chest, right between his two hearts, her own seizing slightly as she felt the rapid, strained beats in his breast.

“Promise me, Doctor. Cross your hearts –“

“-and hope to die,” he finished for her, the ghost of a smile deepening the lines on his gaunt face.

“Don’t you even _think_ about it, Last of the Time Lords,” she warned. “ _Promise me_.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “ _Promise_.”

Mollified slightly, Clara pulled the tartan blanket over him, and tucked it around his shivering frame.

“I won’t be long, and as soon as you’ve had a drink and I’ve patched you up, you and me, we’re going to have _words_.”

He gave a pained chuckle.

“Can’t wait.”

Clara sniffed with irritation but lifted his head and eased the backpack underneath, affording him what comfort she could. She stroked his brow for a moment, easing back snow-and-fever-damp curls.

“Rest. I won’t be long.”

She scrambled to her feet and lifted the two metal cups, but was stopped from heading out of the door by a soft voice.

“Clara …”

She looked down at the Doctor.

“Yeah?”

He swallowed dryly.

“Be … be careful. You may be … may be the Impossible Girl, but …” he winced as he took a deeper breath, “… but watch yourself. Promise _me_.”

She gave him a sudden, brilliant smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I promise.”

“That’s … that’s … good …” The Doctor closed his eyes and Clara swore that she heard him whisper to himself.

“ _My_ Impossible Girl ..”

Heartened, she turned and walked through the open door out into the snow-clad night.

* * *

 

The rumble of thunder and the feel of electricity in the air warned Clara that the atmosphere was still dangerous … that lightning could arc and burn and destroy for a long time yet, as the wind had gusted higher and storm-clouds gathered once more in the distant mountains.

She would have to be quick.

The trees were still burning, although the licking flames had dwindled and in places were nothing but glowing embers. Still, there was enough light for Clara to see what she was doing, and dropping to her knees amid the swirling snowflakes, she quickly cleaned out the two metal cups with handfuls of snow.

Satisfied that they were as clean as possible, she packed each of them with more snow, pounding it down until whiteness turned to opaque, icy blocks.

Looking around, she checked out shadows and what horizon she could see, and then she scampered back to the huge doors and was inside in a flash. She eased the open door almost closed, leaving a six-inch gap as insurance in case the door couldn’t be opened from the inside. She couldn’t see a lock, but given the times during her travels when doors with no visible locks had locked behind her, she was taking no chances.

She was pleased to discover that the Doctor – for once – had done as he was told and stayed put. Setting the cups on the thick rim of one of the fires to melt the packed snow, she settled down beside the Doctor to wait.

The fires were now throwing out considerable heat, and Clara felt able to take off her heavy coat and the _chullo_. Draping her coat over the Doctor she saw him stir in response, and laid a hand lightly on his good shoulder, gentling him.

“Shhh … be still. It’s all right – I’m back, and I’m in one piece, okay?”

“How … how long …?” he asked blearily

“About ten minutes. I didn’t take long at all,” Clara answered. “I could do with some bigger cups … they’re too small.”

“They’ll … they’ll do for now,” the Doctor murmured. “I’ll be okay for a bit. When … when the snow’s melted … you drink …”

“You’re talking rubbish again, Doctor,” she scoffed. “Does your Doctor-y rubbish generator go into top gear when you’re hurt? Because you haven’t stopped talking rubbish for a while now.”

If the Doctor could have given her one of his derisory snorts he would have done so, but his pain threshold was dangerously close to breaking, so he decided not to chance it.

“You’re getting some fluids in you so you’ll just have to be quiet and drink up when you’re told.” Clara replied, ignoring the Doctor’s weak glare and resting her hand over his where he held the pad to his wound. “Here … let me see … good … that’s good. Bleeding’s stopped. Let’s get you cleaned up …”

The next fifteen minutes were spent in battle.

It was a battle between two mighty wills, but in the end, the Doctor didn’t have a chance. He put it down to his wounds and the infection, but secretly he knew that he wouldn’t have won even if he’d been in the very best of health. He _never_ won when it came to arguing with Clara.

He was told to drink a few sips of tepid water. When he opened his mouth to object, she trickled the fluid over his dry lips and he swallowed reflexively. It tasted like heaven.

Next, she used more of the water and one of his best linen napkins to wash the blood from his injured shoulder and the cut on his brow. He grumbled and muttered and ‘ouch’ed as she tended him with infinite gentleness, and then she used two of the little bandages – knotted together – to bind another of his best linen napkins – now rent in half – to the puncture wounds. He told her she didn’t know what she was doing, that the napkins had been given to him by Queen Elizabeth I after he helped Drake deal with the Spanish Armada and they were _irreplaceable_ , and finally that she had tied everything too tight.

Clara raised an accusatory eyebrow at him, but otherwise he was completely ignored.

In the end he just lay back and dealt with it. She invaded his personal space, poked and prodded, tsk’d an tutted, and by the time she had finished he was utterly surprised to find himself feeling better than he had done since the Lesser Vordal … he closed his eyes and relaxed back onto the backpack. His shoulder and side throbbed, he had an absolutely miserable headache and his mouth was dry … but he was warm, he wasn’t bleeding, and Clara was at his side. He just wished he wasn’t in this place … the Padú-Kerai. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready. Fifteen hundred years, and he _still wasn’t ready_ …

“Doctor?”

Clara’s voice roused him from his reverie.

“Hmmm?”

“Doctor … listen to me.”

The Doctor turned his head to see Clara sitting beside him on the floor, cross-legged and watching him intently.

“Yeah, yeah … okay …” he answered tiredly.

Clara reached out and clasped his hand in hers. Even if he’d had the strength to pull away, he didn’t want to. Her fingers laced in his and she squeezed his hand, letting him know she was concerned about him.

“I have to go,” she said.

The Doctor’s eyes snapped open. What? What did she say? His hearts almost stopped.

Clara smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry – didn’t mean it like that. I mean … I mean I have to have a look around and see if I can find something bigger to melt snow in. These things,” she held up one of the steel cups, “are just too small. This corridor leads somewhere so I’m going to have a poke about.”

“Clara –“ The Doctor’s fingers tightened on her hand. “Clara … don’t –“

“Stop! I’ll be fine! See?” Clara pointed at an old torch she had found underneath one of the benches. Although centuries old, the wrapped material around the top of the wooden shaft was still sticky with some sort of pitch. She loosened her fingers from the Doctor’s, scrambled to her feet and lifted the torch. She shoved the end in one of the fires and within seconds the torch licked into living flame, burning brightly.

The Doctor strained to sit up and Clara crouched down, pressing him back.

“Hey! Stay still, alright?? Do you really want me to fret myself silly worrying about you? I’ll be perfectly all right. You told me the Vendraloii are long gone, and from what I can see nothing’s been living in here for centuries. Maybe I can find some pottery or something that’ll come in handy. I’ll be back very soon, I promise.”

The Doctor tried again.

“Clara, please … please don’t … please don’t go …”

Clara wasn’t listening. She patted his chest, and standing once more, hefted the torch and set off into the darkness.

“See ya!” she called back at him, and within moments, was nothing more than a blob of light in the gloom.

The Doctor could see nothing after that, as the light faded and darkness encompassed his companion … his friend …

He bit his lip.

“Oh Clara … you’ll see … you’ll see _everything_ … “

And suddenly, echoing out of the darkness, came a cry. A cry of horror. A cry of shock. And then … silence.

 

 

To be continued …


	8. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Clara discovered she really didn’t have any kind of fear of the dark.

Although reluctant to leave the Doctor – mostly because she didn’t trust him to do as he was told and stay where he was – she knew she needed to find some bigger vessels to melt snow. They both required more fluids, and a couple of cups of luke-warm drinking chocolate and a mouthful of melted snow weren’t going to do the trick.

The torch burned brightly despite its great age, and she carefully followed the glittering obsidian walls away from where the Doctor lay. The effect of the light on the glass-like black rock was eerie … her reflection rippled in liquid trails, bending and flickering, a silent doppelganger deep within the stone. It kept pace and looked back at her with fathomless dark eyes and silent watchfulness. Once or twice, as she looked ahead of her into the darkness, she was _sure_ she saw the reflection out of the corner of her eye, smiling secretively to itself.

She shook her head.

 _Snap out of it_ , she told herself. _Focus!_

And almost walked straight into a pair of carved doors, as big as the ones at the entrance of the Padú-Kerai, only this time fashioned from the same black material as the walls. Each door was framed by a metal not unlike copper, but with a soft glow that came from deep within.

“Wow …” she whispered to herself, awed, and reached out with her free hand to push the doors open. As before, a mere touch was enough. This time, both doors swung open before her with only a slight murmur of metal on metal from the great, ancient hinges.

Clara felt a definite tendril of air, wickedly cold, come from the pitch black ahead of her, and a whiff of something … she couldn't quite put her finger on it … yes … _decay_ , she realised, a dry, crumbling decay that instantly put her in mind of autumn bonfires and mulch.

Holding the torch before her now, she moved forward, sensing great space around her and above her, her feet echoing faintly on a floor that had changed from earth to rock, glimmering blackly in the light. She instinctively looked up, and as her eyes adjusted further to the darkness, she thought she saw a distant glimpse of stars.

And then she heard it. Or _thought_ she heard it … a voice. A voice almost beside her … _in_ her, echoing somewhere deep within her head … _almost_ -words, words just beyond understanding.

“Hello??” Clara realised her voice sounded pitifully small. “Hello?? Who’s there??”

“ _There … there … there …_ ”

The echo was the loneliest sound she had ever heard.

Clara snorted to herself. _What nonsense_ , she thought.

Turning around, she shone the flaming torch at the wall of the space … and let out a terrified yelp, stumbling backwards and almost dropping the torch in fright

 _Faces_.

 _So many faces_ … gazing solemnly back at her from the glass-like wall … hundreds of them … _thousands_ … reaching back into the solid rock. They crowded along the wall, figures indistinct but their faces clear and defined, and watched her through long-dead eyes.

They were not human. Long faces, they were, with elegant, slanted eyes and sharply jutting cheekbones and a nose that was more of a bump in the flatness of their features, rather than a feature in itself. Their eyes were solid black, and wide, fluidly curved mouths moved silently as though trying to speak through the past.

For, as Clara suddenly realised, these faces were of a people long gone. They were echoes, merely shadows kept as memories by the strange black rock.

Clara gasped.

A face materialised before her that she recognised. An old face, with tufty grey hair and beard and ageless, wise eyes. The face smiled at her.

The Doctor. It was the Doctor, the War Doctor, with whom she had drunk tea and helped save Gallifrey. And there … a few feet away, a boyish face with blue eyes and charming grin. Here was another Doctor, one who had loved cricket and worn celery as ornamentation. They were joined by a face that was all nose and sticking-out ears, adorned with the widest cheekiest smile she had ever seen … or maybe not quite, as another face appeared, with a riot of dark curls and a grin that was madness and tombstone teeth.

Clara’s eyes widened in wonder, the sudden shock now fast waning to curiosity.

Looking around, she discovered another torch slotted into a stanchion on the wall. Lighting it, she saw the faces follow her along the wall, as though watching over her. This new torch shed enough light for her to find yet another, and as she walked along the wall to light it, her four silent companions went with her.

The other faces – the Vendraloii, she knew now – stayed back, observing, eyes large and unblinking. But her four Doctors watched over her, every move she made bringing a nod of approval and encouragement.

As she lit torches, she finally got a sense of the size of the place. An enormous rounded space, with many ancient wooden chests pushed against the base of the wall. The dry, cold atmosphere had preserved the colours of the paintings on the lids and sides. Clara smiled, and catching the eyes of the ghostly Doctors, she was rather charmed to see them grin back with delight.

But they didn’t stay still. They began to move around the wall in tandem, hovering over one of the wooden chests.

Clara frowned, and then smiled.

“You want me to open it,” she said, understanding.

This time it was the young one with the celery that grinned the widest, his amused eyes warm and friendly.

Clara reached the large wooden chest and leaning down, managed to heft the heavy lid. It creaked, stuck for a moment, and then opened wide, the body of the lid resting now against the black coolth of the wall.

“ _Yes!_ ” she exclaimed in satisfaction. ”Thank you!”

The War Doctor bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Inside the chest was an array of earthenware vessels, some wide and shallow, others taller and narrower, but all a rich, glazed burgundy red, with no visible design. They were plain, elegant, and very beautiful.

Beside the vessels lay blankets, neatly folded, woven from some thick material, a soft blue-grey. _Ah!_ Clara realised. _It’s Vordal hair!_ And reaching down she ran her fingers over the weft, feeling the luxuriant thickness, hinting at warmth and comfort. She knew they must be very old, but she marvelled at their preservation. Perhaps the cold, dry environment, she guessed, and she suddenly realised there was a faint perfume in the air, not unlike Earth myrtle. Lifting the corner of one of the blankets, she found dried sprigs of some sort of plant. Here was the source of the scent, and possibly the reason for the preservation of these ancient artefacts.

Straightening, she looked around, noticing not only the other chests, but here and there lay rough earthenware pots, filled with what had possibly been food.

Clara turned to the shadow-Doctors, deep within the obsidian wall.

“What is this place?” she asked, curious.

Smiles suddenly melded to sadness, the shadows deepening around them as they faded backwards into the wall, and three of the Doctors faced the fourth … the curly-headed one with big, round eyes and far too many teeth in his mobile mouth.

 _The fourth one_ , Clara mused. _The one with the scarf …_

He looked as though he was about to speak, although Clara knew that he could not, but suddenly another face formed beside him, peeking out from behind his shoulder.

_A child … it’s a child!_

A small Vendraloii child, its large, black eyes gazing serenely at her.

She – for Clara somehow instinctively knew the child was female – turned to the Fourth Doctor and glanced up at him, and as one they suddenly turned and looked upwards, past Clara’s shoulder, far into the still air of this huge space.

Clara turned and followed their gaze.

Far above her, the stars had gone, and had been replaced by roiling black clouds. A low rumble of thunder made the air quiver, and the sudden, almost blinding eruption of lightning illuminated the in-curved walls above.

Clara recoiled, shocked.

The walls were studded with carved niches, row upon row upon row, beginning about six feet above the ground and spiralling higher and higher towards the opening high overhead. There were _thousands_ of them … and each of them contained a corpse.

In that split second of clarity, Clara saw humanoid figures, sitting facing outwards with knees drawn upwards to their chests and heads resting on their arms. Each was richly draped in colourful robes, and the bodies were bound into place. Mummified faces slept the centuries away, their bodies slowly desiccating in the rarefied atmosphere.

This wasn’t a place of worship. This was a cemetery, a place where the last of the Vendraloii had entered eternity.

Just as the light died away, Clara caught a glimpse of an ancient wooden scaffold supporting fragile stairs and poles. This was how the Vendraloii placed their dead in their final resting place, along with their gifts and possessions to support them in whatever afterlife they believed in.

Clara, her heart still thudding in her chest, swallowed and turned back to the wall where the shadow-Doctors flickered in the light, only to find the Fourth Doctor and the Vendraloii child had moved. They now gazed back at her at the very edge of the light from the torches, looking down at the glassy floor at a small bundle huddled before them.

“You … you want me to see?” She asked, swallowing nervously.

The child tilted her head and her mouth curved into a Vendraloii version of a smile.

“Oh … Okay … “

Clara stepped forward and crouched down to study the bundle. It was the body of a Vendraloii child. Wrapped in a dark red blanket, the child lay curled against the wall, lying in death as she would have in life, as though she had fallen into a light sleep. Her head was cushioned by a bundle of colourful material, and beside her lay a withered bunch of tiny tundra flowers.

Clara looked up at the Fourth Doctor and then turned to the child.

“This … this is you?”

The child nodded. The Fourth Doctor’s eyes shone with tears.

The remaining three shadow-Doctors joined their other self and the child, and all of them held Clara’s gaze. She straightened and steadied herself.

“What happened here?” she asked finally, knowing the answer before she had finished the question.

The shadow-Doctors all turned towards the great doors. There, the corridor led back to the entrance to the Padú-Kerai and to where their latest version lay sorely wounded.

Clara sighed.

“I’m going to have to ask _him_ , aren’t I?”

The War Doctor’s worn visage crinkled into a knowing half-smile and Clara nodded. She saw wisdom in those echoed eyes, and she reached out to touch his cheek, only to be met by cold, sleek rock. The War Doctor raised his eyebrows regretfully. Clara smiled back. She had become very fond of the grouchy old man in the short time she had known him. She wished suddenly that she could give him a hug.

The War Doctor’s smile widened, and Clara saw him mouth a couple of words.

 _Me too_.

The ninth version of the Doctor was suddenly beside the War Doctor, all sticky-out ears and big nose and concern. He studied Clara for a moment, and then looked at the open chest against the wall.

Clara agreed with him – it was time to get back to her Doctor … _hmmm … when did this latest version suddenly become_ her _Doctor?_ … and make sure he was alright.

Within minutes she had chosen three warm blankets and several bowls, but before she headed back along the corridor she crouched down beside the body of the child, looking up at the small face mirrored within the rock.

“I’m just going to borrow this – I promise I’ll bring it back.”

The shadow-child nodded, and Clara gingerly lifted the corpse’s head and removed the colourful bundle beneath it, replacing it with the _chullo_ so that the child still had a comfortable pillow.

Stuffing the bundle into her pocket, she gathered up the pots and blankets, but then discovered that she couldn’t carry the torch. Oh well. She would just have to deal with stumbling along the corridor in the dark …

But the Ninth Doctor caught her eye. He was smirking at her in a way that was achingly familiar, and he gestured sideways with his head. Clara glanced at the entrance to the burial chamber, and blinked.

Looking back at her was … herself. A shadow-Clara, complete with torch and knowing smile. She would light the way, it seemed.

Clara hurried towards the doors, now guided by her shadow-self, but she halted for a moment in front of the Vendraloii, deep within the obsidian wall. She gestured with her head at the things in her arms.

“Thank you. I mean, I don’t mean to steal from you, but he’s badly hurt, you see … he needs … he needs care, and water, and … and … he _needs me_.”

She felt sad for taking these things, things that belonged to the dead, but she was unrepentant.

But she need not have worried.

The shadow-Vendraloii smiled as one people, heads bowing in acknowledgement.

Profound relief flooded her mind.

“Thank you so very much,” she whispered.

“ _CLARA!!”_

The Doctor … _her_ Doctor … needed her. Although how he had found the strength to yell for her, she had no idea.

“Gotta go!” she said, “but I’ll be back, I promise!”

And within moments she was heading back along the corridor, led unerringly by her doppelganger, the shadowy flickering torch guiding the way.

 _Me and my shadow_ … Clara thought with amusement.

She was _not_ amused when she spotted the Doctor.

There he stood, tall and imposing as always, spare frame swaying shakily in the firelight, eyes both fierce and afraid.

Clara ran the last few steps towards him and dumped her armful of blankets and pots on the stone table-bench-thing.

“Clara …” he said breathlessly, and she caught him as his knees buckled.

For a long, tall drink of water he was no lightweight, and his lax frame dragged Clara down to the floor even as she tried to cushion his fall. She ended up half-underneath him, cradling him in her arms, his head lolling against her shoulder.

“Clara …” his voice was a mere breath ghosting over the skin of her throat. “Clara … you’re safe … heard … heard your yell …”

“Shhh … yes, I’m safe …” Clara did her best to ease him into a more comfortable position without causing his wounds to reopen, and within minutes had him resting on the floor tucked under warm blankets with his head cushioned on her heavy coat.

It took her a little while to gather more snow in the earthenware pots and set them on the fire, and then she settled once more beside the Doctor.

His pulse was racing, although Clara couldn’t be sure whether it was the effort of getting to his feet, the fever, or his determination to find out if she was safe. _Idiot_.

She checked his injuries and was dismayed to see the lines of infection were creeping ever outwards from the puncture wounds, which in turn were swollen and red. Things were getting really desperate. She _had_ to find a way to reach the TARDIS …

The Doctor opened his eyes and studied her, and was about to speak when he suddenly caught sight of Clara’s shadow-self, standing watching, shimmering in the glassy rock, her torch still glowing brightly.

“Oh,” he said.

Clara looked around and saw her reflection.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Kinda cool, huh.” She nodded to the figure in the rock. “Thank you.”

Shadow-Clara smiled, looked fondly at the Doctor, and then faded back into the wall and was gone.

The Doctor tried to move, shifting under the blankets, but Clara stayed him by putting a hand on his chest, forbidding him to do anything of the sort.

“Stay put, you,” she scolded softly. “You’re lucky you didn’t start bleeding again. You and me … we’re going to have to sit down one of these days and sort out all of these ‘not doing as you’re told’ issues.”

“Yeah. So … so you keep saying,” the Doctor sighed. “More ‘having … having words’, I think is … is the phrase."

“You got it. So …” she said, “I found this. Thought you might recognise it.” And pulling the colourful bundle from her pocket, she unfurled it.

The Doctor’s eyes widened.

It was a scarf. Actually, more of a fragment of what had once been a long, multi-coloured knitted scarf, somewhat battered and worn and frail with age, but still recognisable.

“You saw,” he rasped. Clara was sure she heard more than a hint of defeat in his voice.

Clara nodded.

“Yeah … I saw. It was … it …” she shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know how to describe it. A … a cemetery … a burial place …” she leaned forward and the Doctor could see the wonder in her eyes. “And the Vendraloii are there … or at least an echo of them … in the walls, like reflections.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “ … and _you_. _I saw you_. Four of you. From before.”

The Doctor closed his eyes, face lined not only with pain now, but also with anguish.

“Not … not a cemetery … a … a _charnel house_ ,” he hissed, voice rasping tiredly. “That’s all … all that’s left of them … a whole … a whole species … people … gone.”

Clara frowned, puzzled.

“Yeah, I get it. It’s terrible, I know, but it happens – “

“No, Clara! You … you don’t understand!” The Doctor opened his eyes and tried to rise, but Clara, alarmed, kept her hand on his chest, preventing any movement. “Clara …” he continued, softer now, “ … it … it’s my fault. I did this.”

“What –“ Clara’s puzzlement grew to intense concern, but the Doctor cut her off before she could continue.

“I wiped … wiped out an entire … an entire civilization, Clara. Me. On my own. Single-handedly.” He took a deep, agonised breath. “I killed them. Every … _every single one of them_.”

 

To be continued …


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight spoiler for INTO THE DALEK.

**CHAPTER NINE**

Clara studied the remains of the scarf in her hands for a few moments, trying to get a grip on what the Doctor had said.

She swallowed nervously, unable to conceal her shock.

How could he have killed an entire civilization? That could be hundreds of thousands _… millions_ of people. But then … he had destroyed Gallifrey. Or so he had thought.

She realised she couldn’t judge … but she also couldn’t dismiss his claim. The nausea in her stomach told her that she _knew_ the Doctor was more than capable of doing unspeakable things if he thought the action warranted it … if he thought it was the right thing to do.

She ran her finger over the ancient material, noting the softness and bright colours, trying to calm the churning realisation that he _could be telling the truth_.

She glanced at the Doctor. His eyes had closed again, as though it was too much effort to keep them open, and his breath came in short pants, hitching with pain. His hair was sweat-drenched curls, and he shivered uncontrollably.

Clara couldn’t help herself … she reached out and smoothed the hair back from his brow, trying futilely to settle him. He was in no fit state to discuss his past. It would have to wait. She just had to trust him for now … she had to believe that he had a reason for what he had done. _Or_ , she corrected herself … _what he thought he had done._

The Doctor turned his face towards her slightly, as though reaching for the comfort she proffered.

“Clara …” he mumbled, “Clara … I –“

“Shush … I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“You … you should.”

Clara drew her brows down in puzzlement.

“What?”

“ _Leave_.”

She couldn’t suppress a chill of shock shuddering through her at the finality in his voice, but she ignored it. She _had to_.

“Oh, I’ll leave, all right. In the morning, when I can see what I’m doing and I can find a way out for us,” she said sternly. She tilted her head slightly, studying him. Despite the Doctor being so sick, she could see the stubborn set to his jaw. “I see you’re still in ‘rubbish’ mode,” she added, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

The Doctor’s hand emerged from the swath of blankets and grasped hers. He blinked blearily at her.

“You … you leave, Clara. As … as … soon as you can.” He gave her grimace, and he swallowed a groan of agony. “I’m not … not being noble, believe … believe me,” he added. “It’s just … it’s just common sense. And you …” he rested for a moment, teeth bared, the physical strain beginning to overwhelm him. “… you know all about common … common sense, don’t you, Teach?”

Gently placing the remains of the old scarf in her pocket, Clara tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and then clasped her free hand around the Doctor’s, rubbing her thumbs across his bony knuckles. She felt his grip tighten. For the first time since his regeneration Clara realised that he really, _really_ needed the contact.

“Look, Doctor … I have an idea that might work, but I need to check it out in daylight, alright? And then I can go fetch the TARDIS … I can come get you. The sonic should work back in the TARDIS, shouldn’t it? We can set it to tell the TARDIS where you are?”

The Doctor gave a wan smile.

“Of course … of course we can. But … but there might not … not be time …”

Clara felt a sudden chill twist her stomach.

“What … what do you mean? _No time??”_ Realisation struck her. “Ohhh … no, no, _no_ , don’t you even _think_ about it, _you hear me_? I’m only just getting to grips with Mister tall-grey-and-grumpy, so regenerating isn’t an option! Do you understand me??”

The Doctor’s lips twisted into a facsimile of a smile.

“Who … who’s talking about … about regeneration?” he ground out.

Clara’s jaw dropped.

“Excuse me?”

The Doctor relaxed his grip on Clara’s hands and took as deep a breath as his damaged ribs would allow.

“Clara … I’m so tired. Tired to _death_.” He loosely linked his fingers through hers, and let her cradle his hand. “I can choose … choose not to regenerate … and … and death … sounds like … like an … awfully big adventure.”

Clara’s eyebrows hit her hairline.

“What???” She blinked furiously, trying to get a grip on what the Doctor had just said. “… but … _what??”_

The Doctor allowed himself an impatient sigh.

“I … I _said_ –“

Clara, stunned, shook her head, disbelieving.

“Hold it right there!” she said finally. “I _know_ what you said! And if you think …” she took a couple of deep breaths to get herself under control –“ if you _think_ , you … you … _pudding brain_ , that channelling Peter Pan and talking about death for the second time in an hour is going to get you out of making any effort to stay alive and kicking, then you’ve got another thing coming!”

The Doctor clasped her hands tighter in his.

“Clara … Clara … Clara – “

Clara was having none of it.

“Don’t you ‘Clara, Clara, Clara’ _me_! Don’t you _dare_ patronise me!”

“Oh, c’mon – “

Clara leaned forward and looked the Doctor square in the eye with the terrifying glare that he had privately begun to label ‘The LOOK,’ and in lieu of poking him in the chest – which would have been her preference if he hadn’t been so hurt – she jabbed the air in front of his nose as she spoke, punctuating each word.

“Now you just listen to me, you nerk! Remember that slap across the chops I gave you a couple of days ago?”

The Doctor, hazy and in terrible pain and feeling utterly despairing, frowned.

“Um … yeah …”

He felt his teeth ache with the memory. It had been one helluva slap, and if they hadn’t been in horrendous danger while miniaturised inside a deranged dalek, he might have held it against her. If he hadn’t thoroughly deserved it, he admitted to himself.

“Well, compared to the one I’m going to give you when you’re back in the TARDIS and well again, that one was just a love tap!”

“ _Love tap??”_ The Doctor echoed faintly.

Clara’s eyes were all fire and danger. The Doctor thought she looked magnificent.

“On the Clara Oswald sliding scale of slaps, that one was just a _two!_ ” She leaned further forward until her nose almost touched his. “The one I’m going to give you for just _suggesting_ that you might _choose_ to _die_ is going to be at least an _EIGHT_!”

“But –“

Clara held the Doctor’s hand in one of her own and waved the other about in front of his face, agitated.

“No buts! _There will be no dying!_ Of companions _OR_ Time Lords! You understand??”

The Doctor was impressed.

“O-okay. No dying.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, Clara. _Promise_.” The Doctor had the grace to look chastened. “ _Again_.”

Clara, her terror subsiding, smiled shakily.

“That’s better. No dying on my watch.” She used her free hand to adjust the blanket around him, making sure he was as warm as possible. His pallor frightened her.

“Clara …”

“Hmmm?” she murmured, occupied with keeping him still and resting.

“ … _love tap???”_ he repeated.

Clara looked at him. There it was … the faint hint of a teasing grin on his face, his mobile mouth quirking up at the corners. She couldn’t help herself. She blushed.

“Oh … shut up!” she scolded.

The Doctor let loose a dry chuckle that instantly turned into a hacking, agonising cough and Clara, frightened that he would cause more harm to his battered ribs, held him and soothed him with soft, whispered words.

Afterwards, the Doctor lay with his head resting on Clara’s arm and her hand holding his, and he sighed quietly, the coughing spasm having taken all of his reserves.

It was going to be a long night, he knew. It was midsummer on Favonius Prime, and the nights here at the sub-arctic equator were equal to the length of the days, so sixteen-hour nights were the norm at this time of the year.  

“You … you should get some sleep …” he proffered as Clara attempted to make herself comfortable. She had decided to relax back against the stone table-bench-thing and support the Doctor as best as she could. The shared body warmth wouldn’t come amiss either, she thought.

“I’m trying to,” she answered, a little more abruptly than she had intended and instantly regretted it as she felt him flinch. “Sorry,” she added, a softness creeping into her voice.

“S’okay …” the Doctor murmured, “I … I’m just feeling … feeling a wee bit … sorry for myself. A bit …” he paused, thinking, “ _peely-wally_.”

Clara, wriggling about and trying to get comfortable, paused, confused.

“What _are_ you talking about?” she said, grunting as she slid slightly against the stone bench-table-thing, the edge poking painfully into her neck. “Peely-wally???” she frowned. “Is that even a _word_??”

But the Doctor didn’t answer. From what Clara could see, he had slipped into a fevered sleep, eyes closed, his fingers lax in hers.

“Y’know,” she muttered to herself, “that slap I’m going to give you has just gone from an eight to a _nine.”_

Giving up trying to get comfortable, she slid down next to the Doctor and freeing her hand from his, managed to ball the backpack beneath her head. She teased out the edge of the top blanket covering the Doctor and flung it gently over herself, and then re-linked her fingers in his and relaxed next to his long frame. Finally, she could rest.

She looked at his profile in the firelight, all long bones and brows and nose, and was utterly surprised to feel the Doctor lift her hand to lie against his chest, over his hearts. His fingers tightened, and Clara knew then that she would have to lie all night like that, pinned against him, her hand in his, over the thudding of his twin heartbeats. And she didn’t mind. She _really didn’t mind_.

She was still smiling when she drifted into sleep, her warmth mingling with his.

The Doctor, eyes still closed, curled his lips slightly.

“Peely-wally,” he said. “ _Gotcha_.”

And in the flickering light and shadows of the great corridor, the Time Lord and the Impossible Girl lay sleeping in the doomed haven of the Padú-Kerai.

* * *

 

Clara awoke with a start.

The Doctor lay beside her, shaking with fever, brow furrowed. His hand still held hers, tightly clasped to his chest, and Clara could feel the rapid thud of his two hearts echo through his frame. His eyelids flickered and his lips formed a soundless word. He was dreaming, Clara realised.

She glanced over at the fires. They had burned down to glowing bricks of heat, so, she decided, she could not have been asleep for more than an hour or so. Turning her head, she looked back at the Doctor just as the dream took hold. He was restless now, muttering to himself in a language Clara did not understand, and the grip on her hand tightened. His agitation grew, and Clara realised that if his restlessness continued he could open his wounds, so she eased her hand from his grip and touched his face.

The Doctor whimpered at the loss, and a word came from his lips, clearly and succinctly.

“ _Q’lyth!”_

The word began with a soft glottal sound in the Doctor’s throat, and by the way he said it Clara knew it was a name.

Elbowing herself upright and easing back the warm blanket, she leaned over the Doctor, placing her free hand over his chest, trying to settle him.

“Doctor … Doctor, wake up,” she said quietly so as not to alarm him, “come on now, wakey-wakey!”

The Doctor’s eyes flew open, and he took a sharp breath, wincing.

“Clara … sorry … sorry … dreaming …”

“Yep, that you were.” She replied softly. “You were getting yourself into quite a state.”

The Doctor gave a noise that was more pain than anything else, but Clara detected a sense of bitterness.

She sat up and propped herself against the stone bench-table-thing, and proceeded to gently check on the Doctor’s injuries. To her dismay the infection was spreading, now travelling along his shoulder and down his chest. Swallowing nervously, she glanced at the Doctor.

“So …” she said, trying to distract herself more than the Doctor, “who were you talking about? If you _want_ to talk about it, that is” she added hastily.

The Doctor turned his head to gaze at her. His lips twisted in memory.

“Q’lyth,” he repeated, making that soft throaty sound once more. He seemed to want to speak about whoever it was. “She … she’s been dead for … for well over a thousand years.”

Clara looked at him, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Who … who was she?”

A movement caught her eye. There, deep within the rock wall, a face looked back at her. The Vendraloii child. When the Doctor hesitated, Clara caught the child’s eye.

“Is … is that you?” she asked softly.

The child smiled, and she watched the Doctor, fondness shining on the long-dead face.

The Doctor looked at the shadow-child and a sob caught in his throat.

Clara was shocked. The raw vulnerability on the Doctor’s haggard face stunned her as he closed his eyes, unable to look at the figure any longer.

“She … she was my shadow … every time I came here,” he whispered. “The Vendraloii … saved me more times than … than I can remember.” His voice hitched huskily. “When … I was alone … tired … they welcomed me. Gave me _peace_.”

Clara rubbed his chest in sympathy, unable to say anything to aid him.

“Q’lyth … for some reason … followed … followed me around … like a puppy. Funny child. Odd.” He huffed softly. “Quirky. Like me.”

Clara smiled.

“She would have to be.”

Shadow-Q’lyth nodded eagerly, her head to one side.

The Doctor carried on, now obviously unable to stop, the memories coming thick and fast.

“I … I was irresponsible then ..”

Clara couldn’t suppress a snort.

“Still are, you idiot.”

The Doctor smiled mirthlessly.

“She … she loved the TARDIS. The TARDIS … loved her back. So … I took her for … for a wee trip. One trip. An … an hour at a m-market … on Vespae IV … she …she ran around like a wild thing.”

Clara had been to the great market on Vespae IV, a wondrous place of colours and goods from throughout the Charon galaxy, full of different species and noise and foods. She understood why Q’lyth had gone wild among the crowds. She also knew that the Doctor would have loved showing the place off to the child.

Shadow-Q’lyth let out a silent laugh of joy.

Clara saw the laugh and smiled in response.

“I bet she loved it,” she murmured.

“She … she did. She adored it. Wanted … wanted to bring things back for … for her family.” He frowned. “She did that, alright.” He bared his teeth in pain.

Clara felt dread settling in her chest, but stayed silent. She knew there was more to come.

The Doctor’s eyes opened, dark pools of stormy grey in the flickering light.

“I took her … took her home. Left the next day. You know … know me, Clara … places to go … people to see. Didn’t return for a …a couple of years. When I did …” he paused for a moment and swallowed, his breathing shaky. “They … were gone. All of them. Dead.”

Clara’s heart missed a beat. Shadow-Q’lyth’s face fell into infinite sadness.

“How?” she whispered.

The Doctor’s nostrils flared, his voice when it came was sure and fierce and desperately sad.

“A virus. A simple … common-coldish thing … something species throughout the universe … they … they shook it off and carried on. Incurable but … but an everyday, survivable thing. Except to the Vendraloii. They … they were an isolated people … no space travel … the place too cold for most visitors. No immunity or defence. It killed them. _All of them_. Within _two years_. All because I decided to … to impress a small child with a fun day out.”

Clara heard every note of the self-loathing in the Doctor’s gruff voice. And she couldn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault … because it _was_. He thought he had done something nice when he had, in reality, killed an entire species. Without thinking. She wiped her hand over her face. What could she say? How could she comfort him?

Unable to do anything else, Clara tucked the blanket around him and smoothed the hair back on his brow with a now-familiar gesture of care.

“Try to sleep, Doctor. I’ll just put more wood on the fires and then I’ll try to get some sleep too, yeah?”

But he didn’t answer. He just turned his face away from her and sank into a silence of self-hatred.

Sighing, Clara topped up the fires and then slid back down beside the Doctor, and soon fell into a fitful sleep. But she left the Doctor to rest, unable to figure out how to comfort him when she didn’t feel able to come to terms with what he had done.

And in the deep of the night, with storm clouds and lightning shuddering and crashing outside, they slumbered on.

* * *

 

As the snow whirled around the outside world of Favonius Prime, a swarm of small, lithe shadows made their way through the remains of burning trees, rootling and chittering, digging for morsels among the sooty remnants. As they hunted, they found a scent in the snow … a dark stain that had once been red but now had frozen to a dark brown. The creatures milled around, their sounds changing to yarps and growls as they became excited at the scent of what was obviously blood.

One suddenly let out a yipping cry and followed the scent trail, and before long they came to a pair of great doors. One had been left slightly ajar, and it swung fully open as the shadows disappeared inside into the beckoning darkness of the Padú-Kerai .

 

To be continued ...


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I've had to do a Thing. Real life can be a pain, huh.

**CHAPTER TEN**

“ _Clara!_ ”

Clara Oswald blinked into consciousness. Somebody had said something. But who?

“Herm … what??” she said blearily.

“Clara … help … help me up!”

“Doctor?”

“Yes, yes … c’mon … wakey, wakey!”

It was more the impatience in the weak voice than the words that finally fully woke her.

“Doctor … what’s going on?” she asked, yawning, her eyes adjusting to the dim light from the lowering fires.

“Move … we have … we have to move, Clara …now!”

Rubbing her hand over her face, Clara looked over at the Doctor. He had managed to shift himself upright onto his good arm, and was straining to sit up.

“What … what the hell d’you think you’re doing?” she rasped, her mouth dry with tiredness and lack of fluids. She looked at his face, and shook her head. “Doctor …” her voice was tender now, gentle with understanding. “Doctor, please … you have to lie down. It’s just the fever talking –“

“What fever?” The Doctor stared at her, eyebrows gathering like a storm about to break. “Clara …” he winced, his body flinching. ”I hurt … why … why do I hurt?”

“Doctor –“

“No matter … we have … we have to move … get out … get out of here …”

His head hung, exhaustion taking its toll.

Clara’s heart went out to him, and she touched the back of her hand to his cheek. He did not react.

“Listen, Doctor … you’re hurt … you’re running a really, _really_ nasty fever, and you’re probably just a little bit delirious –“

Dark, ocean-blue eyes in a stark, pale visage looked up at her, and for the life of her she couldn’t see any trace of confusion or delirium. The Doctor was as sane and as aware as he had ever been.

“What do you mean, move? Why? What’s wrong –“

The Doctor’s lips drew back in a grin that made Clara’s heart falter for a moment.

“Clara …” the Doctor’s face was almost wolfish in its intensity. “ … _listen!_ ”

Any retort she could have made died before it was even born. She sat still … and listened.

At first she could hear nothing that seemed out of place. There was the sound of the storm outside the Padú-Kerai, the distant rumble of thunder and the eerie cry of wind as it whipped about the entrance. But that was all … no extraneous sound … _wait_ … what was _that_?

Clara closed her eyes for a moment so that she could focus more acutely, her hearing sharpening in the warmth and stillness.

 _There!_ A soft, musical trill, almost beyond hearing, that sounded for a mere second or two and then was gone. It had an almost haunting quality about it, and Clara couldn’t even tell from which direction it came.

The silence was broken by the Doctor’s hiss of pain as he once more attempted to sit up, and Clara opened her eyes and shuffled upwards, even as she reached out to support the injured Time Lord. But as she eased him back into her arms, she heard it again. A soft, chittering trill. But this time … surely not … it was _behind_ her.

“Clara … we can’t … can’t stay here anymore … move … we have to _get out_.” The Doctor rested his head on Clara’s shoulder for a moment, and then tried his best to struggle out of her grasp and get to his feet.

“Whoa! You’re not going anywhere on your own, Doctor, and … and …” she frowned, puzzled. “…what the hell _is_ that??” she asked no-one in particular as the sound came again.

This time the trill was closer.

The Doctor grimaced as his efforts sent jarring bolts of agony through his shoulder and side, but he glanced at Clara’s face, noticing the confusion.

“Drask!” he muttered. “The Drask are here!”

“The Drask?? What –“ Clara was becoming even more confused.

Just out of the corner of her eye, a shadow moved. It flickered in the darkness, a sleek glimmer of luminescence as the firelight caught it for an instant, and then it was gone … only to reappear moments later, sliding silently around the base of the nearest fire-stone.

Clara couldn’t help herself. She grinned.

The thing was _tiny_. It couldn’t have been more than five inches long, slender and lithe, with a bony, velveteen head adorned with big, liquid eyes and miniscule cub-ears held tight to its skull. Four-legged, it halted for a moment and stood looking back at Clara with unblinking gaze, poised with one five-toed paw raised in query. Its plush coat was the blue-black of a raven’s wing, azure-green iridescence shimmering at its throat as it turned its head to sniff at the air. A neat, short tail with a white tip quivered as nostrils caught Clara’s scent. Then the animal let out a short, yipping bark as it turned to look at the Doctor.

“Damn!” The Doctor hissed. “Up, Clara – get up!”

Clara stared at him.

“You’re joking, right?” She waited for the snort of humour from the Doctor that never came. She looked back at the Drask. “I mean … _look at it_! I’ve seen more frightening teddy bears!”

The Doctor gritted his teeth and began the struggle to get his feet under him. Clara hurriedly caught him as his strength gave out and his frame threatened to send him collapsing in a crumpled heap beside her. But despite his exhaustion and pain he didn’t stop – he began the fight once more to gain his feet as soon as he caught his breath.

“What on _earth_ do you think you’re doing??” Clara, exasperated beyond belief, tried to restrain him without hurting him any further, but she realised that his wiry body, despite its damaged state, was still strong enough to battle against her gentle grip.

The Drask was suddenly joined by another, appearing as though from nowhere, and both creatures strained forward, sniffing.

Clara didn’t feel in the least frightened, but she couldn’t resist the Doctor’s determination to get onto his feet, and she was frightened that restraining him would cause more harm than preventing it, so she scrambled to her knees and helped as best she could.

As the two tiny Drask looked on, both giving soft, yipping cries, the Doctor struggled to his feet. It was hard on him, Clara knew, but his determination was immeasurable. He was a Time Lord. He was the oncoming storm. He was the _Doctor_ … and nothing would stop him. The Daleks, the Cybermen … the Master or even the Silence … none of them had been able to stop him, despite their terrible majesty, so he was not about to let a few cracked ribs and a little bit of a fever stand in his way. All Clara could do was support him when he needed it, pulling, pushing or just holding him until the waves of pain subsided, and by the end of it he stood, swaying, pale, but on his feet and back in control. Clara had no idea where he had found the strength.

She looked up into his face as she propped her shoulder against his good side, supporting him.

“You,” she said, frowning. “You are the stubbornest … annoying … most frustrating _idiot_ I’ve ever known, you know that, don’t you?”

The Doctor peered down at her.

“Yep,” he said, as though astonished that Clara would think otherwise of him.

Clara sighed.

“I give up.”

“Good. ‘Cause we … we have to _go_ ,” he added, his eyes straying to the Drask.

“What??? … where did _they_ come from?“ Clara said, taken aback.

Seven Drask now faced them, sniffing and chittering to themselves and each other.

“Clara … there will … will be more. _Many more_.”

The Doctor, Clara suddenly realised, was deadly serious.

“But _you said_ there wasn’t anything carnivorous – and I _quote_ – big enough to beat up a rabbit!!”

The Doctor tried to straighten, failed miserably and resigned himself to leaning on Clara’s small frame. He grimaced.

“ _Singly_ , that … that’s true …” he said reluctantly.

“But … but those things –“ Clara gestured at the Drask, “… I mean, they’re so _small_ –“

The Doctor tried – unsuccessfully - to get Clara moving, and he grunted both in pain and in frustration.

“Yes … well … so is the … the pathogen for … for bubonic plague. C’mon … _shift!_ ”

Clara took the hint. Sliding her arm around the Doctor’s waist, she leaned into him as he tightened his good arm around her shoulders.

“Ready?” she said, gazing into warm blue eyes.

The Doctor gave her the smallest, sweetest smile she had ever seen.

“Ready, boss,” he whispered.

Clara gave one final glance to the ten … _ten_ Drask now gathered into an agitated and seething pile of velvet fur, their noisy vocalising becoming increasingly excited.

“Creepy little monsters,” she said to herself. There was something about the Drask that suddenly gave her the shudders.

Between them, Clara and the Doctor moved unsteadily around until they faced the great door leading to the resting place of the Vendraloii. The little group of Drask skittered to one side of them, flowing over the ground in a contained wave of glittering velvet, moving as one. They halted and rose onto their back legs, balancing delicately as they raised their heads, noses twitching as they scented the air.

“What are they doing?” Clara muttered, her sense of unease growing.

“Wait … waiting,” the Doctor answered, concentrating hard on taking each painful step forward.

“For what??”

“For me … for me to _fall_.”

The light from the fires flickered shadows against the distant doors into the Ventraloii sanctum, and Clara was thankful for what little light they had. She couldn’t have managed a torch and the Doctor at the same time. She could only hope that the torches still burned, or even just glowed with residual heat when they got past the doors.

She peeked sideways once more at the Drask. Their numbers had almost doubled, and she could see more lithe shadows joining them from the entrance.

Clara and the Doctor kept moving, an ungainly, wounded collaboration made up of words of encouragement and argument, hurt and frustration and fear. She felt him flinch with every step he took … she heard the rasp in his chest with each hitching breath, and she held him tight and as safe as she could, letting him know that whatever happened, they would not be parted.

And with each step the Drask moved with them, never getting any closer, but not giving way. They followed like an undulating, vibrant cloak of darkness and shadow, the noise of them growing with every passing moment.

“Clara … stop … please … have to … have to get my breath …”

The Doctor began to buckle slightly and Clara had a sudden mental image of the Doctor swarming with little, fierce creatures, chittering and trilling and licking and biting – _no_ , she told herself … _don’t. Just don’t go there._

Bracing both herself and the Doctor, she held him, surprising herself with her strength. She had promised him … she had told him that she would _not let him fall_.

Precious moments passed, and the Doctor managed to steady himself.

“O-Okay … better … gotta keep going …” he ground out past clenched teeth.

The Drask suddenly surged forward, taking Clara by surprise, and for a moment or two they swarmed around their feet before Clara let out a yell, lifting several of the creatures on her boot and flicking them aside.

The other Drask let out a cry of agitation, and Clara realised that a number of the little creatures were licking their lips and washing their paws as though to clean them. Clean them of _what_?? Looking down, Clara saw through the flickering light a drip of something wet hit the dusty ground. And then another. And then two more … _oh god_.

The Doctor was bleeding.

The Drask were now highly excited, and they became more daring, more aggressive. When Clara raised a hand to shoo them away, one of the Drask arched its back angrily and opened its mouth wider than Clara would have ever thought possible. She blanched as two needle-sharp curved fangs flicked forward from hidden grooves in its palate, and a long, glistening prehensile tongue licked out, running almost obscenely over the black fur of its muzzle. The Drask hissed and darted forward, jaws akimbo and it shrieked as Clara kicked out once more, her heavy boot catching the Drask unawares. More irritated than hurt, the Drask retreated to the safety of its pack, and the animals finally backed off to a safe distance, now giving out little growls and hisses of anger.

Clara was astonished to hear a dry chuckle coming from somewhere deep in the Doctor’s chest, and she looked up to see him quirking a weary grin.

“They … they’re not used … to prey that … that fights back …” he said hoarsely.

Clara held him tighter, knowing he was staying on his feet by sheer willpower alone.

“You should have told me,” she said quietly. “You’re bleeding again.”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory at all, even though it would have made him wistful if it had – he was oddly comforted by her care – instead her voice was calm, understanding, even if he knew she was angry with him. He liked that.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Sorry.”

“So you should be,” Clara scolded as they wove their unsteady path to the great doors, the Drask now trailing along behind, the scent of fresh blood now tugging them along like an invisible cord. “When we’re through the doors I’ll –“

“You … you won’t have time,” the Doctor interrupted.

Clara, putting her free hand on his chest to support him as he staggered with weariness, frowned.

“Don’t talk nonsense! There’s only a few of them! When the doors are shut –“

“There … there’ll be more – many … many more, Clara. We won’t … we won’t have a lot of breathing space.”

They had almost reached the great obsidian doors, the outlines faint in the gloom.

The Drask were at their heels now, chittering as they swarmed as one entity around the two figures. Occasionally one would dart forward to catch at the hem of trouser legs or a stray bootlace, but none of them was quit brave enough to do more. Clara still wasn’t convinced that they were in as much danger as the Doctor was trying to make out, but he was determined, and the fact that he had been prepared to let his wounds reopen so that they would be in a safer place was testimony to his dogged belief in himself.

“Stand still for a moment!” Clara ordered, and managed to execute a complicated set of movements that combined supporting a desperately sick Time Lord, threatening the Drask as they tried to press forward, fangs now continuously bared, and pushing open one of the great doors.

Within seconds, she had dragged the Doctor after her through the open door and slammed it shut behind her, revelling in the frustrated hisses and cries of the thwarted Drask as their tiny frames made no impression on the door. The Vendraloii were great engineers and had made the haven entrance easy to enter, but the Drask were too few in number.

For now, they were safe.

The Doctor leaned against the door, head hanging, and his right hand dripped blood from long fingers.

Clara chewed her lip, worried beyond belief.

“Doctor … let me help … I have to stop the bleeding –“

The Doctor raised his head, the effort almost beyond him, and looked at Clara. Then he rested his head against the door and looked up, up towards the distant sky.

“You … you have to go.”

Clara, in the process of carefully peeling back his coat to tend to his wounds, frowned, puzzled.

“Go?” she pulled one of the squares of towelling from her pocket and eased it over the bloody mess that was the front of the Doctor’s shoulder, pressing down, attempting to staunch the blood flow. She wasn’t too sure how she was going to get at the wound in his back without sitting him down.

“Get … get the TARDIS, Clara. Then come back … come back for me.”

Clara heard him hiss with pain as she pressed hard on his shoulder – possibly a little harder than was necessary after she heard his words.

“Not leaving,” she said, irritated. “Staying. Making sure you don’t bleed to death, you berk. We’re safe for now, and in daylight I can try and get up that really, _really_ terrifying framework of steps to that opening. Then I’ll be back on top of the cliff and I can fetch the TARDIS. But until then, you’re resting up and –“

“NO!” The Doctor’s voice silenced her. His growl was back, weak but perfect, and his eyes sparked with anger. “Don’t … don’t you understand? The Drask … they’re … they’re … a hive mentality. They … they live in communities of thousands. _Tens_ of thousands. Like termites … or … or ants or mole-rats … they will have sent messengers … more will come. _All_ of them will come.”

Clara’s blood ran cold. The image of thousands of the tiny, wiry bodies pressed against the perfectly-balanced doors, the heaving swarm of fur and fangs and oily, glistening tongues made her almost physically sick.

“We don’t have a choice, do we?”

“Nope.” The Doctor looked back at her with steady eyes.

Clara took a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay, then that’s what we’ll do. I … I’ll need to find a torch –“

“No need.”

The Doctor was smiling.

“Look.”

Clara followed his gaze to the bottom of the ancient scaffolding holding up the rickety steps.

A Shadow-Doctor looked back at her from the depth of the obsidian walls. It was _her_ Doctor … _this_ Doctor, whole and well, and holding a flaming torch. Beside him was Shadow-Clara, smiling softly

The Doctor raised his good hand and laid it on Clara’s shoulder.

“Listen to me now. Follow him. _Follow me_. I … I will guide you. Make … make sure you are safe.”

“But –“ Clara hesitated.

“Clara … my Clara …” The Doctor smiled again, warmth once more in his eyes. “Don’t worry. See?” He nodded at Shadow-Clara, who was now moving around the wall to stand beside the door, her features gentle and kind. The Doctor nodded “You’ll … you’ll watch over me, Clara. As you … as you always have. I’ll be well enough,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t hear the lie in his voice.

Clara studied his face. He was gaunt, ill, and bleeding. Only his determination was keeping him upright, and he had no right to be asking this of her. It went against everything she believed in – and hadn’t the Doctor always had her back? Now it was her turn to be there for him. But even as the thoughts ran through her mind, she knew he was right. It was the only way.

“Alright,” she said, her voice steadier than it had any right to be. “Alright Doctor. Whatever you say. Let’s _do this_.”

 

To be continued ...


	11. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

“Sit.”

“Clara, I –“

“ _Sit_.”

“Don’t … don’t need to –“

“Do. As you. Are _TOLD_.”

“Oh.” There came a shallow sigh. “Alright then.”

The Doctor sat down stiffly on the ancient wooden chest Clara had dragged laboriously across the floor and placed against the heavy doors. He could hear the scrabbling anger of the Drask on the other side as they flung themselves uselessly against the huge obsidian barriers.

No sooner was he settled than Clara was off again, choosing the strongest of the chests she could find and dragging it in front of the other door, providing at least a bit of resistance as the number of Drask grew. The chittering and hissing was much louder now, and Clara could see the doors beginning to gently vibrate.

Licking her lips nervously, she tried to ignore the noise and sat down beside the Doctor, pulling the last wad of towelling from her pocket.

“Here … lean forward if you can … just a little, okay?” she said quietly.

The Doctor, much to Clara’s surprise, obediently did as requested, and she managed to slide the wadding over the wound above his shoulder blade, his heavy coat keeping it in place.

“Sorry …” she whispered as the Time Lord flinched, “so, so sorry … but I have to try and stop the bleeding. Those nasty little pretend-rats are getting too excited behind there,” she added, nodding at the doors. “There now … that should do the trick,” she said a little too cheerfully. “Just rest … can you do that for me? Please?”

The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at her balefully.

“I have … have no choice … in the matter, eh?”

Clara gave him a tiny grin, brown eyes catching the reflected pain in his blue gaze.

“Nope. No choice at all. And don’t forget I’ll be watching you, so you’d better behave, y’hear me?”

Shadow-Clara caught Clara’s eye and they smiled at one another, and then at the Doctor.

He caught their smiles and groaned.

“If … if one of you … wasn’t bad enough … nag …nag, nag …”

“Absolutely!” Clara said snarkily. “And don’t you forget it. Sooooo … you just stay put, sit still, don’t fidget and start bleeding all over the place, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

The Doctor frowned.

“What … what _is_ a ‘jiffy’, exactly?”

Clara frowned.

“Seriously?? You’re asking _right now_??”

The Doctor leaned his head back against the cool chill of the door, and closed his eyes.

“Doesn’t … doesn’t matter. Clara … listen … listen to me.”

Clara looked up from her task, which was fastening the Doctor’s coat in an attempt to keep him warm and hold the padding over his wounds in place.

“What?”

“The … the sonic. Setting twelve-d. That … that’s the one. When you get … get to the TARDIS … slot the sonic into … into the console. She’ll know … know what to do. And if … if the stupid … _stupid_ … sonic _still_ doesn’t work … input Emer … Emergency Programme One … that’ll do the trick … _ow_ …” A surge in pain took the breath right out of him, and Clara winced in sympathy as she saw his teeth clench and the muscles along his jawline work as he fought against the agony. “Just … just follow the protocols … “ he forced out, “ … and the TARDIS will … will take you through it … long way ‘round, but hey …” The Doctor opened his eyes and rolled his head wearily to one side, his angular face breaking into a mirthless grin. “ … perforated Time Lords can’t … can’t be choosers, eh?”

Clara couldn’t answer him. Her voice wouldn’t work and the words refused to form. She contented herself with clasping his good hand in both of hers, lacing their fingers together, and they sat in silence for a few moments.

Then she took a deep breath and exhaled noisily.

 _This won’t do_ , she thought. _I have to go. He needs me. He needs me to save him_.

She squeezed his hand.

“Gotta go,” she said softly.

The Doctor gazed back at her, eyes calm in a visage rife with pain and illness.

“Yep,” he whispered.

“Be back soon.” Clara said.

“’Course you will.”

She could hear the amusement in his voice, and it made her heart ache. _He was giving up_.

“Listen, you,” she said waspishly, trying to make him understand. “If you think you’re going to just sit there and die, you have another thing coming, get it?” And before he could form an answer, she cupped his face in her hands, and all she could see in the depths of his blue eyes was calm acceptance. His eyes began to close. Well, she just wasn’t going to put up with _that_. “Oi! Pay attention!”

The Doctor’s eyelids snapped open with surprise.

“That’s better,” Clara said, scowling. “No passing out. I need you to stay awake, you idiot, and hang on. I’m coming back to get you, and when you’re well again, and I mention going for a breath of fresh air, you _take me to Blackpool beach_ , okay??”

The Doctor snorted.

“Boring.” He whispered.

“Absolutely!” Clara snapped back. “Sometimes boring is _good_!”

The Doctor smirked.

“Boring is … is _never_ good!”

 _Yes_ , thought Clara, _that’s more like it!_

The moment had passed, and she felt better for it. Now she could leave him alone and he would still be with her, both in mind and heart, and when she returned for him he would greet her with an impatient scowl and a suitably pithy remark. _Just the way it should be_ , she decided.

She was all business-like now.

“Right. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?” She gave him the gentlest poke she could muster in his good arm. “Behave yourself – I’ll be watching, remember?” She pointed at her doppelganger in the wall, who nodded and frowned. Shadow-Clara lifted a hand and did an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then pointing at the Doctor.

“Hmmm …” the Doctor murmured. “Ego … egomaniac-needy-game … game-player …”

“Shut up.” Clara rose to her feet. “I have to go now. Twelve-d, yeah?”

“Yes.” The Doctor frowned, eyebrows in attack-mode. “Will you just … just get a move on, woman? I … I’ll die of … of old age before … before you get back … at this rate.”

Clara hefted the sonic screwdriver and looked around for a place to put it. _Damn_ , she realised. _Why is it that designers of women’s clothes often don’t put pockets in their trousers??_ She gave up and gripped the screwdriver in one hand. She would just have to be careful and not drop the thing.

Looking up at the sky through the hole in the roof of the haven, she noticed that it was lighter … a dull, gunmetal grey. Dawn was coming. Clara shivered. Her coat was now at the mercy of the Drask, and her _chullo_ cushioned the head of the millennia-dead Vendraloii child Q’lyth. She couldn’t bring herself to retrieve it.

So, she decided, she wouldn’t have time to get cold in the sub-zero temperatures. The running would keep her warm. She felt a twinge of memory. There wasn’t supposed to _be_ any running on this trip. _Oh well_.

With a final glance at the Doctor and a swift pecking kiss to his forehead before he could muster up the strength to complain, she turn on her heel and was off.

The Doctor rested his back against the door and watched as Clara ran lightly across the floor of the haven to his doppelganger. _Hmmm_ , he thought. _Do I really look that grumpy?_ The shadow-Doctor was waiting for Clara, torch held out, pointing the way up the decidedly rickety-looking scaffolding supporting fragile steps made from ancient wood.

He saw her hesitate. He remembered her uneasiness as she made her way down the ancient, doomed stairs carved into the face of the great escarpment, and understood her nervousness, but now wasn’t the time.

“Shift those … those wee legs!” he called out, his voice breaking with the effort, the growl of impatience just at the right pitch to annoy the hell out of Clara.

She turned for a moment and scowled.

“I’m _going!_ Shut up, you!”

The Doctor raised his head, a look of triumph on his face, and nodded at his shadow-image, who turned an infuriatingly patronising smile on Clara and gestured upwards.

“Dear god, _he’s_ at it now! Yes. I _know!_ Honestly ... and you call _me_ bossy …” Clara waved her arms about in exasperation, but took a tentative step onto the fragile-looking stairs. She heard an ominous creak, but it held. Emboldened, she grasped the railing and began to take careful but steady steps upward, the dim light from the Shadow-Doctor’s torch guiding her way. As she went, she occasionally looked towards the sky, noticing the ever-brightening light of a new day. At least she wouldn’t have to try and navigate the escarpment plateau in the dark with the very real danger of wandering over the edge.

The Doctor watched her as keenly as a falcon on the hunt, each step that Clara took mirroring the hitching breath in his chest. He could feel his hearts thudding in his ribcage even as he became more aware of the noise of the Drask behind him.

When Clara had first slammed the great doors behind them, there had been only a couple of dozen of the creatures angrily flinging themselves against the barrier, but now the screeches and chitters were at waist height. More and more Drask were beginning to swarm against the obsidian doors, and the Doctor saw Shadow-Clara glance nervously as the doors began to vibrate and shudder.

_It wouldn’t be long now._

The Doctor knew that the weight of the mass of tiny creatures would eventually begin to push the doors open, and the heavy chests Clara had heaved against the ancient structures would not hold the Drask for very long. All it needed was a tiny gap and the ferocious little animals would flow like a river through into the haven. And then _nothing_ would stop them. _They would eat him alive_.

The Doctor shuddered.

He looked upwards, and was comforted to see Clara half-way up the scaffolded stairway, although he could also see the naked terror on her face. His doppelganger was ahead of her, waving at her impatiently, and he could hear Clara’s voice. He smiled. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but he could tell by her tone that she was annoyed. _Extremely_ annoyed. The Shadow-Doctor was gesticulating, irritation evident in every movement. Then the torch was carelessly tossed away into the depths of the wall, disappearing as though in oily smoke, and the Shadow-Doctor used both hands to try and shoo Clara up the stairs, mouthing ‘ _Get a move on!_ ’

The Doctor was glad he couldn’t hear Clara’s grouchy reply.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Shadow-Clara gazing at him with those great, big eyes in her round face, limpid and soulful.

He frowned, puzzled.

“What?”

Shadow-Clara pointed to the other side of the door, and suddenly vanished.

The Doctor hissed in pain as he rolled his head sideways to his left, and watched as Shadow-Clara blinked into view. Her face was one of terror.

She lifted her arm, pointing along the wall.

_Move!_

It was an almost-whisper in his head, and he could sense the fear in her.

He could also hear the much louder cries and screams of the Drask, now at chest-height, pushing and pushing against the great doors, the coppery scent of the Doctor’s blood sending them into a frenzy. The doors creaked on their massive hinges and shifted slightly. A tiny gap appeared between the doors … not enough to allow the creatures access, but dozens of small, glistening tongues flicked through the gap, reaching, tasting the air, and the sound of the Drask suddenly changed.

Now it was an unearthly, throaty clicking, accompanied by the prehensile tongues licking around the edges of the doors, probing the air, looking … _needing_ their prey …

The gap opened a fraction more, and the tongues multiplied tenfold, piled higher now, and they would have towered over the Doctor’s six-foot frame had he been standing.

The Doctor glanced back at Shadow-Clara.

“You want … want me to move, eh? Where, exactly?” he whispered.

Shadow-Clara smiled in relief. He had understood. She drifted quickly around the wall, coming to a halt beside the fragile scaffold supporting the stairs. She pointed upwards.

His eyebrows arched.

“You … you’re joking, right?”

Shadow-Clara’s face gave him that ‘ _Do I look as though I’m joking?_ ’ look, and she placed her hands on her hips, waiting.

The Doctor turned his gaze to the doors, now beginning to groan under the pressure of thousands of small, velvet-black, lethal little bodies pressing against them, the guttural clicking echoing even more loudly through the haven as the gap between the doors began, oh-so-slowly, to widen. The long tongues were now probing the air, and for the first time the Doctor realised that a tiny pulsating sucker gaped at the end of each tongue, a shallow hollow rimmed with inward-curving rasping teeth.

 _Those tongues would be used to drill through flesh_ – he instantly stopped himself from thinking about it, and made a decision.

Without speaking further, and with an effort that took every ounce of his determination and a considerable amount of pain, used his left hand to support him as he rose shakily to his feet.

Now there was a decision to make. Should he take the shorter route across the diameter of the haven to the stairs? He instantly dismissed the idea. In his present condition, he would be lucky if he managed more than a couple of steps unsupported before he collapsed in an untidy heap on the stone floor. Even if he didn’t pass out instantly from the pain, he didn’t have a hope in hell of getting back onto his feet, and he would have to try and crawl across the floor. The thought of attempting such an impossibility with his mauled shoulder and broken ribs made him queasy.

So, he had no other option. He would have to work his way around the perimeter of the haven, supporting himself by leaning his undamaged left shoulder on the glassy wall. He had no idea if he had the strength to do so, but he knew he had no choice.

_I need to do this. Clara is trying to save both of us, so … I HAVE to do this …_

And with those words singing as a litany in his mind, he set his good shoulder against the wall, and began to inch forward following the curve, the ghostly figure of Shadow-Clara ahead of him, moving backwards, arms outstretched in welcome. He looked into the depths of her dark eyes, and kept going.

* * *

 

“Will you _please_ shut up!” Clara hissed. She stopped for a moment. “What am I saying? I can’t hear you! Oh, what the hell …”

The Shadow-Doctor rolled his eyes impatiently and gestured at the stairs.

Clara knew that his every gesture spoke to her, she could guess every word the doppelganger was trying to say, and she understood him better than she could have ever guessed.

She grasped the rail with both hands and rested for a moment, not daring to look down. Not only did the sheer drop of over a hundred feet frighten her, but it meant she would have had to look at the Doctor – _her_ Doctor – and her resolve was already taking a battering. She knew if she looked at him, she might not be able to leave.

“C’mon, Clara Oswald,” she told herself, “Keep going. Not far now. One step at a time – “

She moved her hand holding the sonic screwdriver so that it rested against the wall and kept the other on the rail, and then began to move ever upwards, the bright light of a new day illuminating her way. She was almost there. Another few minutes and she would be at the top, and she would be standing on the flat plateau of the escarpment, just a short walk from the TARDIS. Then she could use the sonic screwdriver to bring the TARDIS to the Doctor and everything would be all right. They would be safe and –

When she put her weight on the next wooden step it gave way under her boot, and, off balance, she began to fall.

 

To be continued …

 


	12. Chapter Twelve

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

 

The Doctor heard the crack of the wooden step as it broke, followed by Clara’s shriek of terror. Looking upwards, his hearts jumped in fear as he saw Clara slip and fall, somehow twisting desperately as she toppled and managing to grasp the nearest solid object. Her fall jerked agonisingly to a halt as she ended up dangling from the rail of the ancient stairs.

“No … no-no-nonono …” he ground out, trying his best to lever himself upright ready to do something … _anything_ … but he knew that in reality he couldn’t do a thing, and Clara would have to rely on her own strength and ingenuity. He watched, hearts in mouth, as Clara flailed for endless, eternity-stretching moments, but he let loose a small sound of profound relief as she managed to shift her grip and doggedly haul herself back onto the stairs.

“That’s … that’s my girl,” he whispered to himself, slumping back against the wall as his legs almost gave out on him. Even the _thought_ of losing Clara would be too great to bear.

At the same moment, something hit the ground on the other side of the haven, well away from him. A faint green glow shone for a moment and was gone. The sonic screwdriver. Clara had dropped the screwdriver, and he had absolutely no way of retrieving it. He simply didn’t have the strength or the time to spare.

And not wasting another moment or even a thought to the loss, he wearily returned to his tortuous journey around the haven wall to the stairs.

* * *

 

Clara heaved herself back onto the stairs, her heart thudding against her ribs, gulping air into lungs that didn’t seem to be able to get enough of the stuff. She rested for a moment, sprawled on the steps above the one that had treacherously failed and almost sent her to her death. God, she _hated_ heights!

Looking up, she jumped in surprise. The Shadow-Doctor was crouched down before her, hands palm-outwards, flat against the wall. He was shouting, and – oh god – he was shouting her name, eyes wide with fear, his silenced voice making his concern even more desperate. She saw his face relax in relief as she steadied herself, and then he hung his head wearily, elbow resting on one raised knee.

Clara instinctively reached out, her own palm flat on the wall, their fingers almost touching yet not, and the Shadow-Doctor raised his head and gazed at her with an intensity that was almost too much for her to see without weeping for him.

Suddenly, beside him materialised the Shadow-War Doctor, his hand settling to rest on his compatriot’s shoulder and his wise old eyes gauging how Clara was.

 _All right?_ He mouthed.

Clara caught her breath, and then nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit shaken,” she replied.

A smile twitched on the face of the ancient echo before her, and with a gentle squeeze to the Shadow-Doctor’s shoulder, he faded back into the rock and was gone.

The Shadow-Doctor slowly rose to his feet, unfolding himself until he stood tall and straight, and he held out a hand to Clara. Although she couldn’t take it, she smiled and gingerly managed to stand on the old stairs, still unnerved but controlling her terror now. She had to press on. She mourned the loss of the sonic screwdriver, but she knew she still had the means to bring the TARDIS back to the haven … back to the Doctor. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t. Staring back at the Shadow Doctor, she saw him nod in approval, and then smile knowingly. He gestured with his head, a cheeky tilt accompanied by a smirk that made Clara join him with a grin of her own.

_C’mon, Clara! Move yourself!_

He didn’t even have to mouth the words, she knew. They echoed in her head as he began to drift through the rock wall, ever upwards, following the steps to the brightening day.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Clara grasped the rail and balanced herself against the wall, and set herself to continue the terrifying journey to the plateau above.

* * *

 

The clicking was getting on the Doctor’s nerves.

The Drask were in an absolute frenzy now, and the doors were quivering and creaking under the onslaught of the sheer weight of their tiny bodies. The throaty clicking was eerily obscene in its low, questing way, and he peered back as well as he could to check the doors.

Dim light was filtering down from above, and the flicker of countless pink, glistening tongues with their tiny, gaping maws sent a shudder through the Doctor’s battered frame. They had become a mass of grasping, deadly tentacles filling the ever-widening gap between the two doors. It was still little more than a sliver of space, but he knew that he only had minutes at most before the gap widened enough to let the flood of sinuous bodies through.

His stumbling, painful shuffle along the obsidian wall was tortuous to say the least, and he knew he looked as well as felt like a jumble of badly-put-together rags, an animated scarecrow, bloody and torn and hurting and all the while thinking of Clara and hoping above hope that she would make it back to the TARDIS safely.

 _Clara_.

All he had wanted was for her to see him for who he was … the same idiotic alien that wandered the vast and timeless cosmos in an old blue box. The same mad, _mad_ man who lugged around two broken hearts and over two thousand years of regret. He had asked her if he was a good man, and she had answered truthfully. She didn’t know. She would also have answered differently, he knew, if his previous self had asked the same question. He was sure Clara would not have hesitated in saying he was a good man, even though it wasn’t really true. She believed it anyway.

But this face? This new and older face with its attack eyebrows and hawkish features, the rumbling Scots burr and antisocial antics coupled with all of his darkness and pain was more than she could deal with, he knew that now.

The Doctor shook his head, trying the clear the sweat out of his eyes and the fog from his mind.

Enough of the self-pity.

“Keep walking. No … not walking … crawling vertically. Yep. That’s … that’s a better description.”

He spoke aloud now, and watched as Shadow-Clara walked backwards beside him in the wall, cajoling him along as though he was a tetchy toddler. He could almost hear the cooing noises and he sensed the palpable Oswald exasperation even from this echo in a wall.

“Left foot” he muttered breathlessly, “ … put … put the right foot … i-in front of the left foot … no, you _idiot_ , in _front_ … not … not beside. That’s … that’s _standing still_. Can’t stand still. Keep moving.”

And that is exactly what he did. It was painful, staggering and oh-so-slow, but he worked his way around the edge of the haven, leaning precariously against the wall with the shadow of Clara forever urging him on. She silently nagged, teased, pleaded and bossed him as he went, and he took his mind off the pain and the increasing danger of the Drask by having a whispered, halting conversation with her.

He told her she was a control freak, first and foremost. Of course she was. And short. Annoyingly, exasperatingly, _endearingly_ short. And brave. _By Rassilon_ , she was brave! She stood up to _him,_ for a start, and she was a presence in his life that made him grumpy with frustration, yet he admired her beyond measure for it. He respected her non-pudding-brain-like intelligence, her wit and her fortitude, and he loved the trust she had in him no matter what he did. Although, he had to admit, she shouted at him for whatever it was he had done that frightened her or made her shake with anger, and she made her displeasure _very_ loudly known.

She kept him grounded, she kept him focused, and, more than anything else, she kept him _sane_. The bone-aching loneliness of his long life was soothed and the weariness he often felt was assuaged by her presence. She was his more-than-a-friend. _Not her boyfriend_ , he added hastily, although the words echoed falsely in his head, but she was often the only thing that made his life worth living. God, how he loved Wednesdays.

But his hitching, whispering litany came to a sudden halt as he stumbled into something. The stairs. He was at the bottom of the stairs. He had made it! Now all he had to do was make his way up them. If he could get about twenty feet up the frail steps and find a way to destroy them as he went, perhaps he wouldn’t fall to his death and the Drask would be foiled in their deadly aim for long enough for Clara to retrieve the TARDIS. Easy-peasy. He grinned to himself, leaning against the railing and managing to wipe his face, wincing as his trembling fingers ran over the wound in his brow.

“Ho-kay,” he growled hoarsely, “Uppity-up-up-up …”

And grasping shakily onto the railing he eased himself around and sat down on the third step. He sighed, the pull on his damaged ribs almost taking his breath away. This was going to be _so_ undignified. Shuffling upwards on his backside. Clara would never let him hear the last of it if she knew.

So …

He braced himself.

Placing his left hand on the step beside him, he leaned as well as he could against the wall, and using what strength he had in his legs, he managed to heave himself up several steps before the pain set black spots swimming before his eyes.

 _He couldn’t pass out now_. He knew his injuries had progressed from easily survivable to possibly fatal, but he had to hold on – a healing coma right now would have the opposite effect. The Drask would eat him alive.

Leaning his head against the wall, he gritted his teeth, took two shallow breaths to brace himself, and then he smashed his feet encased in their heavy boots against the steps below him. It didn’t take much, to his profound relief.

The frails steps couldn’t tolerate the onslaught of the Doctor’s still not inconsiderable power, and splintered into dusty pieces. Falling away from the frame, the gap they created made the Doctor grunt in satisfaction. He just hoped that the rest of the scaffolding wouldn’t collapse without the symbiotic support of the steps as he methodically destroyed them.

He rested for a moment, and then did his backside-shuffle up several more steps, the effort making him breathless with agony. The steps below him suffered the same fate as the others, his smashing kicks making short work of the structure.

The gap was widening. Although the Drask might manage to clamber up the remaining scaffolding, it limited their numbers …only one or two at a time could work their sinuous way up the slender supports and the Doctor was reasonably sure he could tackle any that came his way. All he had to do was make sure he was higher than any pile of hungry Drask could reach.

He glanced at the doors. The gap between them was now wide enough for him to see the writhing shadows of countless bodies piled high against the obsidian. The throaty clicking was at fever pitch.

Steeling himself, the Doctor set his wounded and exhausted frame to the task he had to carry out. If he didn’t, he knew would meet a very, _very_ painful end.

* * *

 

Clara looked at the Shadow-Doctor beside her in the darkness of the wall.

“Jump?”

The Shadow-Doctor rolled his eyes.

 _Pudding-brain_.

Clara sighed and studied the problem before her.

She was at the top of the stairs, staring at the rim of the hole, just a mere few feet away. But a gap that consisted of a possible fall of over a hundred feet to the floor of the haven yawned impossibly before her.

The stairs had been intended for access to the tombs in the wall, not as an access route to the escarpment plateau – a fact that Clara found decidedly irritating from an otherwise extraordinarily innovative people such as the Vendraloii.

_So jump!_

The Shadow-Doctor backed up his silent words with an impatient waving of his arms in the direction of the gap, a mimed _why-don’t-you-just-jump-over-the-dratted-gap_ gesture, urging her ever onwards.

Clara looked up into a blue-grey dawn dotted with scudding white clouds, and chilly breezes made her shiver. The lack of her _chullo_ and heavy coat was beginning to seriously tell on her energy levels.

“Jump.” She muttered.

The Shadow-Doctor covered his face with his hands, exasperated.

“All _right!_ I get it!! I’ll jump, okay??”

_Finally!_

The Shadow-Doctor did that over-dramatic arm-wavy thing that usually drove Clara nuts, but now all it did was make her heart lurch. She dared not look back. She could only go forward, move as quickly as she could and save the Doctor.

Taking a deep breath, she backed up as far as she was able on the tiny platform at the top of the scaffolding. _It was now or never._

Propelling herself forward, she leapt desperately towards the rim of the plateau above, with nothing but air beneath her feet.

* * *

 

The Doctor was struggling badly. He had managed two dozen or so of the steps, shattering them as he left them behind, hopefully leaving the Drask with little to use as a route to reach him. But his formidable physical reserves had been depleted long ago, and now he was running on little more than sheer stubbornness. He could not give up. He _would not_ give up.

He was now leaning against one of the recesses in the wall, and as he gasped for breath, he caught himself gazing into the face of a long-dead Vendraloii, mummified in the cold, dry air, the desiccated features looking back at him with a sense of serenity that belied the situation in which he found himself.

“It’s … it’s all right for you … the wee beggars won’t be … be chewing on _you_ …” he grated.

The Vendraloii didn’t answer, the sunken eye sockets dull and lifeless.

“Not … not exactly chatty, are you …”

Garnering what feeble strength he had left, he tilted himself forward and managed to shift his damaged body up another three steps.

He rested for long moments, long _wasted_ moments, but as soon as the throbbing pain became a little more manageable he smashed the lower two steps to smithereens.

“Oh … oh, why-oh- _why_ … didn’t we go … go to Blackpool beach –“ he muttered to himself.

His train of thought was rudely interrupted by high-pitched screeches of triumph as the great, obsidian doors pushed against the two heavy chests and the gap between them widened.

Within seconds a lithe, undulating stream of tiny bodies spewed forth through the gap, hissing and chittering and heading straight towards the ancient stairs.

The Doctor looked at them with widened eyes and eyebrows raised. He tensed, ignoring the ripples of agony through his shoulder and side.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

 

To be continued ...


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

 

Clara scrabbled desperately on the edge of the hole at the top of the haven, fingers frantically attempting to dig into frozen ground and she felt several fingernails tear. She yelled in fear and pain, her feet swinging in nothing but air, trying to find purchase in the arching wall of the haven. With a supreme, muscle-wrenching effort she managed to shift her left elbow up and over the rim, and before she knew it she had struggled her way onto the plateau to safety.

She lay there for long moments, flat on her front, the side of her face resting on brittle, frozen plants and small sharp pebbles, and she thought to herself that nothing had ever felt so good. Solid ground. _Gotta love it_ , she decided.

Her heart hammered in her chest while her torn fingernails ached in the cold, and the chilly air found its way into her tortured lungs and _God_ , it felt great to be alive!

But she couldn’t hang around feeling smug – she had to _move_.

Stirring her weary limbs into action, she scrambled clumsily to her feet and oriented herself.

She was standing on the exposed, bare surface of the great escarpment, looking out over a barren world just awakening after a long, difficult night of snowstorms and lightning. The wind was sharply chilling, miniscule frost particles stinging Clara’s exposed face and hands. She shivered uncontrollably and peered downward into the haven, but could not see the Doctor in the gloom. The floor of the haven glittered faintly, rippling … moving … and she could hear the distant chitter and click of countless tiny creatures. She gulped in terror.

“ _I MADE IT!”_ she yelled, her voice cracking hoarsely. “ _I’M HEADING FOR THE TARDIS – HOLD ON! I’LL BE BACK AS SOON AS I CAN!_ ”

The Shadow-Doctor looked up at her from the wall, smiling, proud. He nodded in reassurance.

 _He’s alive_ , he mouthed. _GO_.

Clara didn’t hesitate.

Turning on her heel, she set off at a jogging run towards the tiny, dark shape in the distance that was the TARDIS.

* * *

 

The Doctor was in the midst of another panicky shuffle upwards as the Drask flowed around the base of the stairs, frantically nosing and sniffing the remaining scaffolding where it rested on the floor of the haven. They knew the Doctor was above them, their pink, glistening tongues flickering desperately, the tiny, rasping mouths flexing and gaping with need. They were very, _very_ hungry, the Doctor realised. _They wanted to feed_.

Beside him, squeezing uncomfortably between two of the mummy chambers, was Shadow-Clara, frantically waving at him to _move his backside_ up the next few steps. The Doctor wondered vaguely how an echo could be uncomfortable, but the doppelganger seemed to be annoyed at the limited space.

“Yeah … yeah … okay …” he muttered wearily, and steeled himself to move as best he could upwards and backwards.

The Drask began exploring the uprights of the scaffolding, trying to sense a way forward to their prey – and the Doctor knew that he was nothing but prey … food for creatures that moved and lived as one, without much of an independent thought in their tiny heads. It would be an ignominious end for the last of the great Time Lords of Gallifrey, he mused.

 _Nope. Not going to happen. Clara won’t allow it_ , he huffed to himself. Neither of the Claras, real or echo, would abandon him.

As he thought about it, he saw one of the Drask make a tentative effort at scrabbling up one of the uprights, failing to get very far, but the Doctor knew that the Drask were nothing if not persistent in the most deadly way. Gritting his teeth against the throbbing, wrenching pain, he began the laborious business of moving up another three steps on the fragile scaffolding.

* * *

 

Clara was very glad that she wasn’t wearing her usual footwear. Heels would have been deadly not only for the Doctor’s life but her ankles. The heavy boots clumped clumsily over the frozen ground, but they were sturdy and resilient, allowing her to run at a panting scramble along the top of the escarpment.

She focused entirely on the growing black shape of the TARDIS in the distance, and she could feel the growing warmth of the TARDIS’s key suspended around her neck. She didn’t know whether it was the heat of her own tired body, hot and sweaty with effort, or the vicinity of the TARDIS that made the key’s temperature change, but to be honest she didn’t care. She needed to get back to the Doctor, and to hell with the discomfort.

She suddenly tripped over a rock fragment and fell to her hands and knees, scraping them painfully, but she scrambled back onto her feet and kept going, ignoring the sting of the skinned palms of her hands. She ran and she ran, oblivious to the stark beauty of the world laid out before her.

As she drew closer, a small family of tiny mouse-like creatures were startled by her presence, hopping away on powerful hind legs, their balance kept by stiff, thickly-furred grey and white banded tails. They babbled noisily to each other in fright, but Clara didn’t even acknowledge their existence. She would reach the TARDIS in a matter of minutes, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

 

The Doctor smashed through two more steps and felt the scaffolding shudder with the blows. He didn’t know how much more the ancient uprights could take without the bracing of the lower steps, but he decided he would just have to trust the Vendraloii’s construction skills, and he groaned with pain as he set himself to move higher.

Below him, the Drask hissed as the wood fragments showered them from above, and they skittered around the base of the scaffolding. Perhaps they didn’t need to climb towards their prey. Perhaps all they had to do was wait and their prey would fall right into their midst.

The throaty clicking began again, and this time it was alive with anticipation.

* * *

 

The TARDIS loomed before Clara, the blue shape solid and reassuring, and she slowed, catching her breath, gasping in the bitter wind that bit through her clothes and immediately began to chill the sweat on her skin. As she fumbled for the key her hands were stiff with pain from the scraped skin on her palms, and the joints of her fingers ached abominably.

Finally getting a grip on the key, she leaned forward and unlocked the TARDIS door and it swung open, allowing her to stumble into the console room and slam the door shut behind her.

For long moments she sagged against the railing and caught her breath, gasping and wheezing, trying to slow her racing heart and calm her breathing and her mind. She had to have her wits about her, she knew. She couldn’t panic now – the Doctor’s life depended on her mind working logically and as coolly as possible.

As her breathing slowed along with her heartbeat, she felt more than heard a gentle, enquiring hum from the TARDIS.

Clara straightened. She had a difficult relationship with the ship, she knew, and she just hoped the finicky machine would work with her on this one.

_Well … here goes …_

Looking upwards at nothing in particular, she spoke out loud, the words ringing clear in the still air.

“ _He’s hurt!_ ”

Her voice was hoarse with stress and exhaustion, but those two short words echoed throughout the ship, and as they died away, Clara heard a sound that sent a gasping breath of relief through her.

The cloister bell resounded, long and deep and ominous, thrumming through the ship as the TARDIS made her feelings known.

Clara closed her eyes for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists as they hung by her sides.

“Thank you … oh, thank you, thank you, thank you …” she whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. The TARDIS understood.

Stirring, she ran to the console and positioned herself in front of the keyboard. As she thought through what she had to do, she talked to herself – or to the TARDIS, she wasn’t really sure.

“Right … Emergency Programme One … let’s see …”

Flexing the last of the cold and stiffness from her fingers, she began typing. E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y [space] P-R-O-G-R-A-M-M-E [space] O-N-E

She pressed ‘Enter’ and the words appeared on the moveable screen before her.

Clara waited as the TARDIS cogitated, and then the screen went blank and suddenly flashed a word at her.

**PASSWORD**

Clara stared at it in disbelief.

Staring about her wildly, she shook her head.

“You … you’re kidding me, right???”

She felt and heard a soft mechanical murmur that sounded suspiciously like an apology.

“Can’t you bypass it?” she demanded, her voice breaking with fear. “I mean … surely this is an emergency – hence the name ‘ _Emergency Programme One????”_

The soft murmur came again.

“Oh, for goodness sake –“

She thought desperately. Considering the Doctor’s long life the possible word permutations and subject matter ran into countless thousands. Her hands hovered above the keyboard. How many goes did she have? Would the TARDIS’s systems lock her out after one failure? She couldn’t risk it. She had to get it right first time.

“All right then … let’s think …” she said aloud, brain working overtime. Could it be a place, or a name? A companion? A favourite saying. _Pudding brain_ drifted into her mind and she rejected it instantly as too absurd even for the Doctor at his most childish. How many companions had there been through the centuries? She knew a few … Rose … Susan … Jamie … Amy … Romana … Clara … she suddenly blushed at the idea and scolded herself for even thinking it. And then a thought hit her. River! What about River? She had been his wife, after all. But as soon as she thought of it she rejected the idea. River was dead. Somehow the Doctor using the name of his dead wife as a password seemed too … _too hard_. _Too painful_. Her loss was something he could not fix, even with a time machine. No … the password had to be something profound, something that meant hope and memory … something that was never far from his thoughts.

_Think – think – think -_

The screen flickered for a moment, and suddenly an image resolved before her. It was a planet, a beautiful, shining planet with two large moons and a glittering, fragile ring system. One of the moons – the larger one – glowed a rich, warm copper.

Clara smiled triumphantly.

 _Of course_.

She hurriedly set her fingers with their torn nails on the keyboard as the image of the planet faded back to the dull box missing a password, and quickly typed in two words.

G-A-L-L-I-F-R-E-Y-L-I-V-E-S

The TARDIS instantly hummed into action.

“ _YES!_ ” she yelled, grinning. “Thank you!” she called out, and heard the TARDIS’s circuits crackle with urgency as the screen in front of her ran through a series of rapid-fire prompts that set up protocols, scanning for the Doctor’s bio-signature. There was a sudden, ecstatic beep and high above Clara the rotor cranked in motion.

The familiar wheezing, groaning rhythm of the old box filled the air, and Clara hung on to the console at the TARDIS lurched into action.

She clung on tightly, her eyes closed, and whispered a litany under her breath, as though saying the words would make everything all right in a blink of an eye.

“ _Please hurry … please hurry … please hurry_ …”

And the ancient blue box dematerialised, leaving nothing but a windswept vista over a frozen world and the cold winds carrying the groaning whisper of time travel until it faded and died.

* * *

 

The Doctor had managed another few steps, and with the very last of his strength had smashed all three. He couldn’t do any more. The pain had almost reduced him to unconsciousness, he was gasping shallow, wheezing breaths, and his vision swam, sweat blurring what little he could make out.

“No more,” he gasped, jaws clenching in pain, words fighting past teeth bared in agony. “I’m finished.”

He laid his head against the rock beside him, and Shadow-Clara reached out, echoed fingertips brushing against the surface that mirrored the Time Lord’s exhausted features. The anguish on her face was almost tangible.

“Sorry … sorry … can’t move …” the Doctor whispered breathlessly, his chest tight with pain and lungs heaving, even his advanced respiratory system strained to the limit.

Shadow-Clara sat down beside him and leaned her head against his, the glimmering obsidian rock their only barrier, it seemed.

The Doctor glanced down at the Drask, now a heaving mass of velveteen and teeth and tongues, chittering and barking to themselves, the underlying throb of the guttural clicks making the very air shiver.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shadow-Clara’s hand lie beside his, and with a supreme effort, he moved his fingers to touch the wall, the comfort it gave him gently warming his chest.

Below him, the Drask flowed like crashing waves against a cliff, teeth flashing white in the gloom, and as one they began to pile upwards, body upon small, furry body, pushing against the black wall and the remaining frame of the steps.

* * *

 

Clara hung on as the TARDIS roared her fear through the vibrating console, the frame of the great machine shuddering as it raced through time and space towards the Doctor.

Clara’s voice had dropped to a breathless silent murmur.

“ _Please hurry … please hurry … please hurry …”_

* * *

 

The stairs lurched.

The Doctor was jerked from his reverie as the fragile steps shifted under him, and the sound of the Drask surged loudly, a song of triumph and yearning. The stairs began to vibrate and judder, the weight of so many tiny creatures pushing and probing and desperate to eat pushing the frail wood to beyond breaking point.

The first support snapped with a bone-shattering crack.

It was loud enough to make the Drask fall back for an instant in fear. But the moment passed, and sensing the inevitability of their prey’s end, they doubled their efforts, screaming now, the swarm reaching further and further up the slender frame, supported by the blank wall.

“Got … gotta move …” The Doctor grated, and with an inhuman growl he pushed past the pain and the hurt and the sheer exhaustion and levered himself to his feet. And there she was. Shadow-Clara stood beside him, reaching out to support him, and the Doctor could almost feel small, strong hands wrap gently around his waist … it was as if slender arms held him close, as though she could stop him falling through will power alone. And if anyone had a strong will, he thought, it was his Clara. His Impossible Girl.

He swayed as he stood, and looking up he saw clear skies and scudding clouds, and the outline of a great moon in the sunlight. A rush of cool breezes and the smell of something like crushed myrtle soothed his senses, and a great calmness filled his being.

And around his feet, the Drask finally swarmed.

They overwhelmed him, screeching and chittering and clicking, needle-teeth piercing wounded muscle and probing tongues drilling through cloth and flesh.

But the Doctor didn’t feel any pain.

Stretching his good arm heavenward, he heard a distant rhythmic wheeze, and he stepped out into thin air and fell.

* * *

 

The TARDIS had slowed, Clara realised. For long moments it was as though time stood still – and nothing could be truer, she thought, inside a time machine, but she bit her lip and waited. She had to trust the TARDIS – there was nothing else she could do.

But as the moment stretched endlessly, her temper frayed.

“Oh, for god’s sake – _help him!”_ she yelled.

But before her words had even died away, she let out a shriek as the Doctor suddenly materialised in mid-air and crashed heavily to the floor of the console.

“DOCTOR!!”

He lay sprawled on his side, all long legs and sweat-dark hair and bloody clothes, and Clara rushed towards him, only to be driven back by several tiny creatures, hissing and screeching and _feeding_ , Clara realised.

“ _God-oh-god-oh-god-_ “ she babbled, unable now to control the terror. Looking around desperately, she seized upon a wrench the Doctor had been using to fix a stubborn flange at the base of the console.

Brandishing it before her, she scrambled back to the Doctor, poking the wrench at the Drask, who were now watching her warily as they continued their assault on the unconscious Time Lord.

Clara realised she was absolutely furious.

“You!!! You get away from him, you bloody little horrors!! Go on!! Get lost!!”

She managed to whack one of the beasts as it worked its tongue into the Doctor’s side, and it screeched in pain before withdrawing, tongue bloody and gaping, tiny teeth pulsing. It scampered away, obviously hurt, and Clara turned to the two remaining Drask.

One was tearing at the cloth covering the Doctor’s wounded shoulder, eager to get at the injury, and the other was busy drilling into the Doctor’s thigh just above the knee. Blood soaked the material of his trousers as it fed.

She shoved the wrench at the one on the Doctor’s shoulder and it skittered away to join its wounded comrade. They faced her, hissing in anger, faces bloody and cavernous, sharp fangs glistening in the lights of the TARDIS’s interior.

The third Drask wasn’t taking any notice of the others. It was too busy taking its fill of flesh and blood, and Clara couldn’t hit the creature without hurting the Doctor in the process, so she threw the wrench aside and, even as her heart seized in fear, grabbed the animal with her bare hands.

Grasping the tiny carnivore around its head and by its short, stubby tail, she tried to pull the Drask from its meal, but even as it wriggled and screeched, she saw the tongue stretch as it ate its way into the Doctor’s leg.

Clara tried to control the animal and pull as gently and as firmly as she could, but she was frightened that if she continued, the tongue would break and be left in the wound. But before she could make a decision, a long-fingered hand snaked around hers and pulled the Drask upwards and away.

The Drask screamed and its tongue worked its way free, leaving a spray of blood over Clara’s shirt.

Turning, she looked into blue-grey eyes filled with pain and weariness and fire, and the Doctor flung the Drask away from them both. His good hand now free, he raised it and snapped his fingers.

The TARDIS doors flew open, and for a split second Clara realised that they were still within the Padú Kerai, and the TARDIS tilted, the Drask unable to keep their grip on the smooth surface. In a moment they were gone, falling to the Drask swarm below that raged and ranted its frustration at the loss of its prey.

The Doctor’s body slid too, but Clara wrapped one arm around the console base and the other around the Doctor, who clung to her with his good arm using strength he didn’t know he had.

And then the TARDIS doors were closed and they were away from the haven, the Drask, the Vendraloii, and Favonius Prime.

They were in the time vortex, the TARDIS slowed and her sound softened to a gentle hum, and Clara let go of the console and gently wrapped her arms around the Doctor.

He lay supine, hurt and bleeding, and looked up at her from under furrowing brows.

“You … you took your time,” he whispered.

Clara smiled.

“Yeah … well … next time we go to Blackpool beach!” she replied, pursing her lips.

“Yes Ma’am,” he croaked, and then he closed his eyes and passed out.

 

 

 To  be continued ...


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

 

The TARDIS thrummed anxiously as Clara cradled the Doctor in her arms, her heart hammering so hard she thought it would leap from her chest.

She eased her legs around until she sat flat on the floor of the console room, one leg either side of the unconscious Time Lord, his head lying on her shoulder as she held him to her, taking care to not disturb his injuries until she could tend to them properly. She sat still for long, desperate moments, her breathing finally calming enough for her to begin to assess their situation.

At least they were both now safe. The TARDIS drifted idly in the time vortex, happy, it seemed, to hold time in thrall until Clara figured out what to do next.

The Doctor lay sprawled bonelessly on the floor of the console room, filthy, bloody and hurt. The heat from the fever wracking his frame could be felt by Clara even though his heavy coat, and the sheen of perspiration dotted his skin, which was waxy and pale with illness.

“Oh Doctor,” she whispered. “Oh, you big, silly, _brave_ idiot. Whatever am I to do with you?” She rested her head for a moment on his short curls, and thought hard.

She had to find a way to get him to the TARDIS’s sick bay, and she certainly couldn’t move him while he was unconscious.

Looking up, she spoke to the TARDIS.

“Is there any way you can move him?” she asked, hope rife in her voice.

The only reply she got was a mechanical, worried hum.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then, shall I?” she muttered.

The TARDIS remained silent.

“Well, d’you think you could move the sick bay closer, then?” she demanded testily.

The electronic TARDIS version of an irritated mutter of ‘ _Of course I can!_ ” echoed through the console room, and Clara smiled grimly. For once, the TARDIS was on her side and working with her, trying to save the being they both cared about so deeply. And, Clara realised, she _did_ care deeply about this new, unknown Doctor more than she dared to admit.

He lay in her arms, lax and still, and Clara knew he was too heavy for her to lift, skinny scarecrow though he was. She could try dragging him, but the thought of damaging him further scared the wits out of her. No, she had to find a way to waken him and get him on his feet.

Clara nodded. She could do this, she told herself. Of course she could. All she had to do was rouse an unconscious, badly hurt Gallifreyan and make him stand up on his own two feet and walk to the sick bay.

 _Oh god, this was impossible!_ She bit her lip to stop herself crying. _Oh, come on Oswald – put your back into it!_

“Doctor? Doctor, I need you to wake up now.” She said firmly, patting his cheek.

No response.

“Hey you!” Her voice was louder now, insistent. “C’mon! You have to wake up!”

This time, her pats turned into light slaps. She was getting even more desperate. The tears began. After all they had been through in the last hours, she couldn’t help it.

“Doctor … Doctor please … wake up … I have to get you to the sick bay, you big fool! And I can’t carry you! The TARDIS can’t move you! _You have to help me out here!!_ ”

He was going to die here, safe in the TARDIS, simply because he had wanted to take her for a picnic. Of all of the dangerous, heart-wrenching, terrifying situations they had encountered over the years, a simple pleasure trip had turned into _this_.

Clara’s tears finally dissolved into sobs, noisy and hiccupping, and she held onto the Doctor’s limp body as though her life depended on it, willing him to hang on … as though his wasn’t slipping away even as she held him close. Even if he didn’t die, he could regenerate, and that was almost as difficult to deal with. A new Doctor, a new personality and all that entailed. Clara didn’t know if she – or even the Doctor himself – could take it so soon after the last regeneration.

But her thoughts and her tears were interrupted by a croaky whisper that came from somewhere underneath her chin.

“Five … five foot one … and … and crying …” the Scots burr was soft with suffering. ” … and very, _very_ loud …” The Doctor’s voice was feeble and gasping, but he was conscious, and that was all that mattered. “Can’t … can’t a Time Lord pass … pass out in peace …”

Clara took a gulping, breathy sigh of profound relief.

“No you bloody can’t!!” she sniffed loudly, hugging him as carefully as she could. “Doctor … Doctor, listen to me … I need you to do a Thing,” she said, rubbing her cheek on his curls.

“A Thing …. um … does … does it involve … run … running?” he countered quietly. “Don’t … don’t think I can do … do running at the moment … or fighting daleks … or … or … anything much, really.”

Clara couldn’t stop the watery smile that broke through her sobs.

“How about standing up? Any chance of that?”

A weak snort was his only answer.

Clara dabbled at the tears on her face and then wiped them away with her sleeve, supporting the Doctor with her other arm. She sniffed heavily to prevent the weeping-induced snot dribbling from her nose. She _hated_ crying.

“You have to, okay?”

“Bit … bit gravitationally challenged here …” the Doctor mumbled.

Clara rested her head on his, holding him close.

“Don’t care. Not listenin’. You’re going to stand up, and then you are going to the sick bay.”

“Clara … if I … if I ever get … get on my feet … no sick bay.”

It was Clara’s turn to snort.

“Do as you are told. Sick bay!”

The Doctor wearily shifted his head on Clara’s chest and looked up at her with eyes darker than clouds on a moonlit night.

“Take … take me to bed.”

Clara’s eyes rounded in utter surprise, even as they leaked a few stray tears over puffy eyelids.

“Um … _excuse me_??”

She felt the Doctor slump with exhaustion, and, she realised, more than a hint of annoyance.

“Not … not sick bay … bed … my room … Clara … _help me_ …”

“But –“

“No buts,” he whispered. “Please, Clara. _Please_.”

Clara opened her mouth to object, but the sheer desperation in the Doctor’s eyes stopped the words from forming and they died unborn on her lips. She finally nodded reluctantly.

“All right, _all right_. But Doctor –“

“Up, Clara. _Up_.” The Doctor shifted in her arms, biting back a cry of pain. He struggled to get his legs under him, his frame tense and shaking with effort. Clara, caught unawares, fumbled her support and the Doctor’s torso sagged in her arms even as he levered himself upright.

“Sorry … so sorry …” Her voice broke, catching in her throat.

The Doctor ignored her. Using her as a support, he slowly worked his legs under him and found his way to his knees, Clara holding him and murmuring words of comfort and frustration, the stubbornness he was drawing upon frightening her with its intensity.

It took what seemed like hours. The TARDIS, Clara was sure, was trying to stay as steady as possible, and each agonising shift upwards was followed by long minutes of resting, the Doctor hanging onto Clara and propping himself against the railing around the central console. Clara could feel the heaving of his chest, his damaged ribs making every agonised breath shiver with pain. She had no idea how he stood it. His eyes were tight shut, his face drawn and deeply lined with the effort. His teeth were bared, his visage one of complete concentration, a lord of war battling against the limitations of his own body, superior though it was.

But stand he did.

Swaying, propped against the railing, white as a ghost apart from the colour over his cheekbones denoting the fever that set him shaking, the Doctor gazed at Clara with a ferocity that made her smile despite her fears.

“See?” he said hoarsely. “A … a doddle …”

Clara caught him and steadied his wilting frame as he began to crumple, but he rallied and righted himself, his good hand clinging to Clara’s sleeve with desperation, knuckles white with effort.

“Oops …” the Doctor whispered, mouth close to Clara’s cheek. “Sorry …”

Clara wordlessly held him for long moments until he caught his breath, and it was only then that she looked up into his face and shook her head.

“What?” the Doctor asked, perplexed.

“Yeah …” Clara muttered, “ … an idiot in a blue box. That’s you,” she added. She rubbed his chest gently. “C’mon, idiot. To bed with you. One step at a time.”

The Doctor huffed softly, his damaged body a mass of pain.

“Sounds … comfy.”

Clara glanced up at him as she braced herself to take his weight as he worked his way down the steps to the lower floor.

“It will be once I get you cleaned up and we can treat that infection,” she said quietly. She only hoped the TARDIS had something up her time-machine-y sleeve to help her battle the deadly infection now working its insidious way through the Doctor’s system.

The Doctor’s co-ordination was completely out of sync, limbs refusing to work in tandem with the rest of him, but Clara could sense the determination in every trembling muscle and tendon. With each breath came a soft mutter, a jumble of words she almost heard and understood amidst the soft, lilting language she had heard him speak before as delirium took him in the haven of the Padú Kerai. A mélange of language and meaning only he could understand.

It was almost as if he was outside of himself … his mind disassociated from the failing scaffolding that was his body.

They reached the bottom of the short but steep flight of steps onto the lower floor of the console room, but the Doctor stumbled on the last step, Clara crying out as his weight almost sent her to her knees. But somehow the Doctor righted himself, the pain that riddled his frame now unheeded, his face sheened with sweat yet set with determination.

“Oooohhh … ClaraClaraClaraClaraaaaaaaaa … white holes …supposed to be … supposed to be …part of the … of the solution to … to the Einstein … Einstein field equations … Schwarzschild metric …” The Doctor’s pale features scrunched suddenly into a triumphant grin. “ _Wrong!_ Hawking _got it wrong!_ ” He winked at Clara. “He … he never met the … the Clandestine Triumvirate of Chang-Er. Clever clogs, they are,” he wheezed. His eyes closed. “All … all of those endless .. endless universes …”

Clara, groaning with the effort of keeping the Doctor upright, shifted his arm more firmly around her shoulder.

“D’you think we could have less of the gibberish and more of the walking forward? Hmmm?”

The Doctor managed to straighten, eyes popping open, his whole body wobbling fiendishly.

“Gibber-gibber-gibber-“ he parroted.

Clara rolled her eyes.

“Oh, give me strength …” she muttered as the Doctor launched himself forward, heading into the corridor before them. He had a distinct list to the left, which meant he was leaning on Clara, his meandering, dragging steps taking them nearer and nearer to a dark, carved door ahead of them that Clara had never seen before.

The Doctor kept up the steady stream of feverish nonsense, each intake of breath punctuated by hitching pain. He was mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like a poem.

“Spring … spring is sprung … the grass … the grass is riz … I … I wonder where … the boidies iz …” He blinked down at Clara. “You’re very short,” he announced.

Clara glanced up at him, gritting her teeth with the effort of keeping this wandering fool on some sort of even keel.

“Not short,” she managed to grind out. “You’re nothing but a bloody beanpole. _Everybody’s_ short to you!”

The Doctor was promptly outraged.

“OOOHH! Language!” he rasped, eyebrows raised in shock. But before Clara could answer with a suitably waspish reply, his attention was taken by the door before them, which silently swung open unbidden. “Bed!” he said loudly and very clearly.

There was indeed a bed. A large, austere bed in dark carved oak, in an equally austere room lined with bookshelves laden with ancient tomes interspersed with well-thumbed paperbacks. A fire already glowed warmly in a fireplace surrounded by dark green delftware tiles, and a heavy, deep burgundy chaise-longue stood parallel to the bed. Large pillows and a bolster made the bed welcoming, and heavy quilts lay on a chest at the foot of the bed, ready and waiting to keep the bed’s occupant warm.

The only thing out of place in the room was a large red box standing on the bedside table, lit by a lamp. A white cross was emblazoned on the side.

“Oh, thank God,” Clara gasped. The TARDIS has obligingly supplied a medical kit. On a shelf beneath the table stood a bowl of steaming hot water and towels.

Within seconds she had eased the Doctor down onto the bed, where he sat, swaying dangerously, as Clara began to ease the ruined coat from his damaged frame. No matter how careful she was, it was obvious the operation was hurting him. Now she could see him in some sort of decent light, she was appalled at how damaged he was. As she peeled off the coat and then the remains of his shirt, she blanched at the state of him.

Dried blood crusted his chest, back and shoulder, the red, swollen lines of infection stretching across wiry muscle and bone. The Doctor hunched to one side, his arm pressed tight against his side, the skin blackened by deep bruising that ran from shoulder to waist and beyond. Clara had no doubt at all that his ribs were not cracked. They were broken, and broken _badly_.

Her makeshift bandages were pitifully useless.

“Oh, Doctor …”

Her voice broke, even as he turned hollow eyes upwards, gazing at her with such deep, unbidden trust that her heart shattered with the pain of it. But she didn’t have time to anguish over things – she had work to do.

Turning to the side table, Clara began to unsnap the clips on the medical kit, fumbling slightly as her hands shook. Lifting the lid she heard a deep groan, and turned to see the Doctor collapse in a sort of controlled topple sideways onto the bed, easing onto his back, head resting on pillows and one leg hanging loosely off the side of the bed, booted foot dangling.

She bent to lift his leg onto the bed when a long-fingered hand suddenly grasped her wrist. The strength in that hand was surprising.

“Doctor, I –“

“No, Clara,” he rasped quietly, his voice soft but clear. “You can stop now.”

The frown lines appeared again between Clara’s brows – a sure sign that she was not about to allow interruptions.

“Listen, I have to –“

“Clara.”

The Doctor looked at her languidly. The pain had disappeared, leaving nothing but clarity and peace in the Doctor’s haunted face.

Clara froze.

“Clara …” The Doctor smiled. It was that rare, shy smile that softened his hawkish features and smoothed the sharp edges of his personality. “ … it’s too late now. I … I can let the TARDIS take … take you home.” His smile widened into a grin. “It’s all right, you know. You’ll be fine. My Impossible Girl.”

And even as his smile relaxed, the light faded from his eyes and he just … _stopped_.

Clara blinked.

“Doctor?”

The hand holding her wrist slid free to hang bonelessly over the edge of the bed, and Clara knew then that he was gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - work simply got in the way!


End file.
